Remnant
by Fell The Tempest
Summary: The Schnee family possesses a special trait: the ability to summon familiars into battle. Weiss was convinced she was the exception... that is, until the Battle for Beacon. [One-shot turned full-length story. Beta-read by knightoblivion, Cover Art by ArkT.] [Complete.]
1. Chapter 1

Weiss Schnee was many things.

She was a singer, an aspiring huntress, and heir apparent to the Schnee Dust Company, the largest energy producer on Remnant. She was graceful, poised; a delicate winter flower, so the tabloids said, with wealth, beauty and talent beyond imagination.

However, neither the world's wealth, nor its talent, could protect her from the demons they created.

Every motion was graceful; every smile was beautiful; every word was perfectly enunciated; because anything less would be seen as failure.

As the heiress of the Schnee Dust Company, her life's ambitions had been decided from the moment she was born. Her parents kept her locked away in their family estate, surrounded by everything she would ever need, surrounded by tutors, maids, cooks and gardeners that catered unquestioningly to her every whim, lest they find themselves out of a job.

They were her only contact with the outside world... and she _hated_ them for it. Their smiles, their laughter, served as bitter reminders of what she could not have. In those seventeen years, locked away behind the stone walls of the Schnee Estate, she learned two very important lessons.

The first lesson: that money could not buy happiness. The second: that a cage, no matter how gilded, is still a cage. These lessons defined her, molded her into a cold, callous person, one who trusted few and cared for fewer still.

But that had changed when she'd come to Beacon.

 _For the honor of the Schnee Dynasty_ , she'd said. _That's why I want to become a Huntress_. It was the only reason her father would accept. But there was much more to it; Beacon was her escape from the madness, from the mantle she was forced to bear. Even if it was only for a heartbeat, she needed to escape the whitewashed halls that threatened to swallow her up, and the immaculately pressed sheets that never seemed to keep away the chill.

She'd found freedom, there, and with that freedom, she'd grown. She'd made friends, learned to stand on her own two feet. Her eyes, as they say, had been opened; the world was, indeed, a scary place - she knew that better than most - but what did that matter when you had friends to keep the worst of it at bay?

She was a member of team RWBY, top of her class, and she wouldn't have traded it for the world. Yes, Weiss Schnee was all of these things... but, in that moment, she was something else. Something more.

Something a _ngry_.

"Yang... I'm sorry. I'm _so sorry_."

Each of her teammate's sobs sent a sliver of hot rage into her heart, but she didn't look back at the two broken bodies lying behind her on the cold concrete. Not at Blake, her undershirt stained crimson where Adam's sword had skewered her; not at Yang, whose right arm was missing from the elbow down.

She didn't look. She _couldn't._ Because if she did – if she did, she'd lose control. She'd do something stupid, something her team – and Vale - couldn't afford.

The stakes were high, higher than ever before. Vytal and the City of Vale had been swarmed by swarms of Grimm, creatures of darkness that sought only to destroy humanity. And, as much as Weiss hated to admit it, they'd done a stellar job.

War had erupted on their doorstep, and hundreds of innocents had died in the ensuing chaos. The streets burned like torches in the night; storefronts and homes alike had been smashed to splinters beneath the footsteps of the Grimm, the White Fang, and rogue Atlas troops.

Then, Atlas' flagship had fallen from the sky, pulverizing an entire city block beneath the twisted hull of steel that represented the pinnacle of man's defiance against the darkness.

The negativity caused by those deaths had attracted more Grimm, like moths to a flame. In the span of hours, the Kingdom of Vale had been thrust to the brink of annihilation. And Beacon – her classmates, her professors, her _teammates_ –

Weiss grit her teeth, her knuckles going white on the hilt of her rapier.

 _No. I refuse to lose anyone else! Not today!_

And so, she stood her ground; as the rest of Beacon Academy evacuated by airship, she stood guard over her fallen classmates. Over her sisters-in-arms. Over her _family_ – the family she'd forged in a kiln of sweat, blood, and tears.

Her pristine battle dress had been torn and caked with dust in the wake of the fighting. Blood ran from a single cut over her eyelid, where one of the Grimm had managed to pierce her Aura, but she paid the wound no mind. Instead, she held her weapon at the ready, steadfastly ignoring the burning in her limbs that threatened to drag her to the earth.

After all, lowering one's guard against an Altesian Paladin was suicidal.

The metal monstrosity towered over her, easily five times her height. It was fast as it was powerful; its beady optic sensors flashed crimson as they tracked her movement.

She took a quick breath, before meeting its charge. With a sharp gesture, sky-blue glyphs blossomed beneath her feet, enhancing her speed to a level that rivaled even Ruby. Stepping forward, she closed the distance between them in the blink of an eye, Dust rounds carpeting the ground in her wake.

A handful of other students – those who were still able to stand – took up arms and began firing at the corrupted machine, trying to distract it or disable its cannons, even as their shots were repelled by its steel hide. Even injuries wouldn't stop them from pulling a trigger.

 _How long had she been fighting?_

Myrtenaster's revolving chamber snicker-snacked into position, and with a wordless cry, Weiss thrust her blade forward. Myrtenaster was never an ideal weapon for taking out machinery, let alone the grandiose war machines that Atlas used for Grimm containment, but she made due.

Her rapier's razor-sharp tip flashed, in and out, punching holes in the carbon-steel hide of the Altesian Paladin.

Weiss shifted – far more quickly than any normal girl in heels would find possible – and ducked beneath the Paladin's savage blows, her scowl filled with contempt.

" _Amateur_ ," she snarled, as she side-stepped yet another two-ton fist, her rapier igniting in a flurry of sparks as it glided down the robot's arm. She batted the limb aside and lunged towards the Paladin's face.

A savage grin split her lips as Myrtenaster sunk hilt-deep into one of its glowing red eyes.

"That's for _Beacon_!" She cried, glaring at the machine. Her father would be disappointed in her, for her _uncivilized_ behavior. What proper lady would lose her temper in the presence of her peers?

A proper lady wouldn't take up arms, either – so she supposed she was destined to be a disappointment. And, at the sight of her wounded friends, she realized she didn't care. The heiress would become _very_ unladylike, if it mean that Yang and Blake would survive.

Snarling, Weiss wrenched the blade from the behemoth's eye and skirted around its grasping hands. She crouched atop the machine's back, just out of reach of its hungry claws, her rapier poised to strike at the exposed circuitry between its head and neck.

The Paladin bucked beneath her feet, trying desperately to dislodge its murderous passenger. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't land a finishing blow - the god-forsaken machine just wouldn't sit _still_.

" _Weiss! Watch out!_ " Shouted a voice. _Neptune_ – of course. He and the other students had been providing covering fire. Instinctively, she glanced in his direction, opening her mouth to say something – only to pause at the look of abject terror in Neptune's eyes.

Its kinetic servos whirred into motion, and suddenly, the Paladin was airborne. The wind was punched from her lungs as the metal behemoth activated its booster rockets. She collapsed bonelessly into the metal, the impact blasting through her already-weakened Aura and cracking her ribs, even as she was carried up and away, hundreds of feet in the air.

For a moment, she was senseless – blinded by the sudden pain, the wind whipping through her hair, and the all-consuming need to _hold on_. But her trembling fingers, inch by inch, lost their hold on the robot's slick hull. Her hands closed, empty, Myrtenaster tumbling towards the earth below, suspended in open air.

The Paladin turned to face her, its lone eye glinting dangerously. Relying entirely on instinct, fear and adrenaline beating a frenzied staccato in her chest, Weiss _screamed,_ her voice stifled by the wind –

– wishing for _help_ , someone to _help_ , because she didn't want to _die_ –

\- her Semblance activated, and a _new_ glyph was born into existence, a glyph decorated with swords that spiraled endlessly around its center -

– and the robot's fist collided with her chest, striking her with the force of a two-ton sledgehammer.

Days later, when she woke, she would recall nothing else... nothing else, save for a pair of beautiful sunset eyes.

* * *

He fell endlessly into the abyss.

The wind rushed by him, whipping through his hair, its chilly fingers digging into his flesh like so many blades. His clothes, little more than rags at this point, hung loosely about his frame, utterly failing to stave off the cold. Vacant eyes flickered open, blearily staring into the dusk.

Lungs seized, taking in their first, gasping breath.

The _moon_. Fractured like glass, it hung in the night sky, all but eclipsing the light of the stars with its majesty. He stared at up at the heavens, and a feeling of unease settled in his gut. His thoughts were jumbled, incoherent – but something about what he was seeing...

...it was _wrong_.

Even downward he tumbled, buffeted by the ocean breeze, rocketing towards... hundreds of little somethings, glowing brightly in the darkness, streaking across his vision as he spiraled out of control. _Lights_ , he realized. Flickering in the distance like little candles.

And in the harsh glare of those lights, he noticed something else: he was not falling alone.

Beside him was a woman – more of a girl, really, possibly in her late teens – dressed in a sky-blue battle-dress that had clearly seen better days. Her snow-white hair whipped about her head as she tumbled, bloodied and bruised. One of her arms was twisted at an odd angle, and blood poured from a deep cut just above her hairline. Her eyes settled on his, only for a moment – and then they slipped shut, as she passed out from the pain of her injuries.

Those _eyes_... Why did they look so familiar?

A woman's voice pierced the haze within his mind. A memory – a remnant of a memory, from a time so long ago.

 _"-duty... there's no turning back. Once you've made this pact... Alaya won't let you go. You know that."_

 _Red fabric rustled. Hands twitched, tugging at the edge of her skirt._ _Sky-blue eyes settled on his own, filled with love – and with despair._

"I want to be a hero," he whispered, his voice stolen by the wind.

 _"I know," she replied. She sighed quietly, the sound breaking his heart. A soft smile came to her lips, and her eyes grew suspiciously wet in the flickering candlelight. A hand, soft and warm, pressed lightly against his chest. "Just... don't forget me. Don't forget us. Promise me."_

"I promise."

The lie left his lips without any meaning, without any emotion.

He couldn't remember her, not really. Her name, her face - they had faded as the years passed. Was the voice in his memories truly hers, or was it, too, a lie? His memories of her had worn away, save for those of her sky-blue eyes and the warmth they held.

But he treasured those memories above all things. They were his anchors, rousing him from the steel and blood and fire that consumed his every waking moment.

A shadow – imposing, and growing closer by the moment – tore him from his reverie.

The structure, whatever it was, loomed hundreds of feet into the air. Fire licked along the edges of the structure, casting its worn steel and scorched mortar into stark relief. Black creatures in white masks scurried across its surface like ants, gnawing and thrashing and _writhing_. Beady red eyes swiveled, tracking their approach.

His enemies – _the enemies of mankind_ – lay in wait. As was his duty – to end the threat. Such was his existence, his purpose.

It was too late to change his trajectory. He was too close, and was traveling at a speed far too great to stop. Any mortal would be swiftly killed on impact, their body dashed against the stone tower like a bug against a windshield.

But not him. He wasn't mortal. Not anymore.

Spidery limbs glowed with _od_ as they were reinforced beyond their natural limits. His bones hardened, his skin became tougher than the strongest leather, and his muscles became as dense as steel cables. Like a meteor in the night sky, scorching with fire, he descended. He grasped at the falling girl's dress, clutched her tightly to his chest, and turned his back to the wall –

\- and a thunderclap echoed into the distance as Emiya Shirou pierced through the unrelenting tower walls like a knife through butter.

* * *

 **[Author's Note - Fell the Tempest]**

 **[Story]:** In Volume 3, Chapter 11 of RWBY, Weiss accidentally started summoning in the heat of battle. I thought it was an interesting coincidence that the summoning glyph she used had swords spinning through it, and decided to write this one-shot in which Shirou is summoned by Weiss instead of a disembodied arm. I don't normally do one-shots but I thought it would be a refreshing change of pace and help to get the creative juices flowing.

 **[Reviews]:** Rate, review, let me know what you think. Should I continue this?


	2. Chapter 2: Worthy of the Name

**[Author's Note – Fell the Tempest]**

 **[Continuation]:** When I wrote this one-shot, I didn't have any expectations. Honestly, I posted it for shits and giggles. Then, within 48 hours of being posted, it had around 30 reviews and 1500 views. Which, for me, is pretty huge. It's really exciting that you guys are enjoying the story so much and I hope this second chapter meets your expectations.

I've been a little nervous about this, honestly – nothing I've ever written has gotten so much attention in such a short time and I'm really excited by all of the support I've gotten from you guys. This story doesn't have an ending planned yet, but I have a couple ideas as to where I'm going from here. So, as thanks for the support, here's a second chapter, the longest chapter I've ever written for any story _ever_. It was beta-read by **Sociopathic-Antichrist,** a friend of mine who stayed up into the early hours of the morning fixing all of the mistakes I missed and making helpful suggestions to make the story flow better. Without his efforts this chapter wouldn't be nearly as clean as it is.

I'll be updating when I can – and because of all the hype behind this, and the awesome support, expect an update every couple weeks. All of this encouragement is really motivating and makes me want to write more.

Now, to answer the questions you've had about the story.

 **[Shirou's Context]:** Shirou acknowledged, in the Unlimited Blade Works storyline, that his goal would never be achieved, and that some day he might fall victim to the same fate Archer did. Rin _knew_ that, and tried to teach him to love himself, to stop him from becoming a Counter Guardian – and, realizing it couldn't be done, she tried to help him do a _better job_ , to help him _last a little longer,_ so that maybe she could prevent him from becoming Archer in the future.

 **[Shirou's Nature]** : In this story, it's been lifetimes since Shirou became a Counter Guardian, and that time has taken its toll on his mind. He's all but forgotten what life was like before his recruitment by Alaya, with brief flashes of memory being his only reminders. In essence, Shirou is on the brink of 'becoming' Archer. He's one micro-step away from becoming the thing he hates: a cold, calculating machine, betrayed by his ideals and unable to find happiness in his purpose. Logical to a fault, prone to playing human calculus, cynical in the extreme, and beyond recovery. The only thing differentiating him from EMIYA is the occasional flashes of memory that tether him to his humanity.

 **[Thank You]:** Once again, thank you all for the support and encouragement. Now, on with the story.

* * *

 **[Chapter Two: Worthy of the Name]**

Shirou was hallucinating.

He'd served Alaya for years beyond counting. In that time, he'd slain terrorists in the sands of the Mediterranean, felled Dead Apostles and rogue elementals throughout the continent of Africa, and even traipsed backwards through time to fight a man who'd achieved a fascimile of the Second Sorcery.

And as a result of those journeys, of his experiences as a Counter Guardian, he considered himself to be fairly well-traveled. He had seen the past, and the future; several variants of _both,_ in fact.

But a fractured _moon_? Masked monsters, like he'd never seen before, in such great number? The world he found himself in could only be the product of a fevered dream.

At least, that's what Shirou _thought_ , until he smashed through the tower wall in a shower of concrete chunks and plaster dust.

Reinforced or not, that impact _hurt,_ and at that point, he realized that two things: that he wasn't dreaming, and that by extension, that the girl in his arms was real.

Tenderly, he brushed the pale girl's hair away from her throat, and took her pulse.

 _...ba-bump... ...ba-bump..._

Her heart was fluttering like a bird's wings - but as long as it was beating, she could be saved. The question was: for how long? Though Shirou knew the basics of first aid, he was no healer... and, unfortunately, his Sword affinity didn't do him any favors.

Concern, or something close to it, stirred within his breast. He found his eyes drawn to the woman in his arms, and took a moment to study her closely, inspecting her for wounds. There was no lighting in the tower, but his reinforced eyes granted him near-perfect vision in the darkness.

There was a scar crossing one of her eyes, he noticed, perhaps the result of a sword wound. But it was her other, more recent injuries that drew his gaze; bark, fresh bruises crept along her collarbone, suggesting that it was broken. Her breathing was slow, soft, and... slightly _wet_. Broken ribs? A punctured lung, perhaps? Internal bleeding?

Shirou's jaw tightened, ever-so-slightly.

 _What did this to you?_

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden explosion of concrete dust and fire... and as the smoke cleared, he took a half-step back in surprise.

The war machine towered over him, its hull flecked with laser burns and scrapes. Its lone crimson eye scanned the room, before drawing a bead on the girl – and then it stomped forward, raising an arm. The arm clicked and whirred, and the barrel of a machine gun emerged from a junction point at its wrist.

 _Well, there's one question answered,_ he mused.

He stood, hands loosely at his sides, and placed himself between the injured girl and her aggressor. The robot paused, the glare of its beady red eye settling on him... and then the sound of grinding steel filled the air as the barrel of its machine gun whirred to life.

"It seems that, wherever I am... there are people who need to be saved." Shirou murmured, smiling.

It was a smile that didn't meet his eyes.

" **Trace, on.** "

In a flash of light, Shirou's empty hands were filled with steel. His mind, as sharp as the blades he held, played out and assessed a half-dozen combat scenarios. Information flowed within his mind, as plans were conjured, and then discarded.

They were in an enclosed space, and using destructive weapons would likely bring down the tower. If he were on his own, that wouldn't have been an issue – but the girl, who he was protecting, would likely be killed in the collapse.

Distracted, he glanced back at her for a fraction of a second – and that fraction was all the Paladin needed. The Paladin opened fire, the machine gun buzzing like an angry chainsaw, dust rounds ripping from its extended barrel and streaking towards him in vibrant flashes of rainbow-colored light.

Shirou couldn't dodge. The girl – _ice-blue eyes filled his vision, and a soft whisper broke his heart_ – was behind him. If he moved, if he attempted to skirt around the hail of bullets, she would be killed. And, in one of very few moments of irrationality, he determined her life to be... precious. Precious beyond comparison, beyond the lives of those he saved, those who would never appreciate his actions and who would likely die in droves before the conflict was finished. He wasn't sure _why_ he felt that way -

– _don't forget us, promise me_ -

-but he didn't dwell too heavily on that. He didn't second-guess his actions. Those thoughts were for another time, preferably when he wasn't in danger of being killed. The thought brought a sneer to his lips; when was he _not_? Had there ever been such a time?

Instead, his limbs were once again reinforced, along with the piecemeal armor that had been destroyed upon his summoning. The red and black fabric, inlaid with carbon-weave fibers and steel plates, would still provide _some_ protection.

He charged, head-on, into the hail of gunfire.

Time seemed to slow as adrenaline pumped through his veins. Kanshou and Bakuya shielded his approach, deflecting lethal fire away from his vital bits. Average blades would have been destroyed under the blows they absorbed, but the enchanted steel of the Married Swords held fast. The bullets he couldn't deflect beat a heavy staccato on his armor, but didn't pierce skin; they hurt, but the sensation of pain was ignored and discarded. One round grazed his head, parting his hair, even as he stepped into the robot's guard, Kanshou extended.

Steel flashed, and the machine's arm fell to the ground in a pile of smoking wires and metal, severed at the elbow. Shirou, standing behind the Paladin, let out a slow and steady breath.

The steel monstrosity roared its displeasure. Shirou barely had time to blink before the Paladin struck back, with a sudden ferocity that knocked him off his feet; there was a sound like grinding gears, the steel behemoth whirled, and a sword – more of an oversized box cutter, really – emerged from the thing's _other_ arm, flashing towards his eyes.

Shirou brought up his arms and blocked the strike, his reinforced muscles groaning under the weight of the blow. The blade descended again, and again, with mechanical precision. Sparks flew as the swords connected, in a furious dance of death.

Static flashed across his vision.

His arms shook beneath the weight of the blows, burning with agony. His legs began to shake, and he was driven _back,_ closer and closer to the woman he was trying to _protect_ from the fighting.

The robot lunged forward, blade thrusting for his heart; this time, Shirou was prepared. Rather than blocking the strike, he stepped around it, and the offending blade missed him by a hair's breadth, biting deep into the stone floor. Spinning on his heel and pouring as much _od_ as he dared into his legs, he lashed out with a reinforced kick.

The robot's blade may have been heavy and sharp, but it was a mass-produced weapon of fairly low quality. Compared to the enchanted steel of Kanshou and Bakuya, it was a pale imitation of a real weapon. All of the strikes Shirou had blocked served a purpose, and when a steel-toed boot backed by two hundred pounds of reinforced Counter Guardian struck at the base of the blade, that purpose was brought to light.

The blade snapped off at the hilt.

Pain lanced through Shirou's hip, but he pushed forward, not allowing the steel monstrosity a moment's rest. He twisted and lunged forward, his twin swords flashing, ripping through the Paladin's glistening hull like it was made of wet tissue paper.

His strikes were methodical. Efficient. Surgically precise. The battlefield had become an operating table, Kashou and Bakuya had become his scalpels, and Shirou... he'd become death itself.

Shirou danced around the beast, much like Weiss had minutes before – but unlike Weiss, he was faster, stronger, and better equipped to handle his opponent. His first strike severed the exposed hydraulics that controlled the movement of its legs. The second, a brutal overhand slash, removed the robot's remaining arm from its shoulders. The Paladin stumbled, sparking and smoking, its lone eye flashing dangerously -

– and Shirou's blades sank hilt-deep into its chest, biting into the machine's vital circuitry.

The fight was over almost as soon as it began, and with much less fanfare. The Paladin's optics flickered and died, the electric humming in its chest faded, and the steel behemoth collapsed, like a marionette with its strings cut, silent as the grave.

Kanshou and Bakuya evaporated into a cloud of dust, leaving two smoking holes in the Paladin's corpse.

Sunset eyes lingered on the machine for a moment. Lips parted in a weary sigh. Fabric rustled, and footsteps echoed through the empty tower. The footsteps stopped, and hands - _hands_ _that will never hold anything_ \- reached for the fallen girl with eyes that were so familiar...

...and a soft red light filled the room.

Startled, Shirou spun on his heels, his heart pounding frantically –

– the Paladin's eye flashed, faster and _faster, too fast_ -

– and the Counter Guardian closed his eyes.

* * *

There are more flavors of pain than coffee. There are the little pains – the pains of stubbed toes, papercuts, and honest mistakes. There are the harsh, stabbing pains – the pains of rejection, forgotten dreams, broken bones and broken promises. Then, there are the longer, drawn out pains, the pains that never seem to fade – the pain of grief, the pain of a lost love, the crippling agony of a serious injury, and the knowledge that things will never be the same again.

Every living being partakes of pains like these over the course of their lives... and, unfortunately, some partake more than others.

Blake Belladonna, by the time she'd hit her late teens, had become a connoisseur of it.

As a faunus and an _orphaned_ faunus at that, her life was anything but easy. Abandoned by her parents just before her fifth birthday, and then by the orphanage that refused to take her, she'd grown up on the streets and made ends meet by selling newspapers. If she didn't sell enough, she went hungry. Most of her nights were spent in the cold, curled up with the previous day's papers and a handful of scraps to fill her belly. And when night fell, when darkness covered the city streets and smog blocked out the stars, she'd wondered why her parents left.

She'd tasted pain... and in time, she'd gotten used to it.

Until the White Fang came to her 'doorstep'.

In those days, the organization was... different. Calmer, peaceful, moderate and open to discussion. As advocates of equality, they took Blake into their fold, and she became their poster child, a symbol of the oppression that everyday Faunus experienced. They'd raised her, educated her, taught her how to fight, how to forage, how to cook, and how to read. Without their tutelage, without their support... she would probably be dead.

It wouldn't be a stretch to say that she owed them _everything_. They'd become her _family_ , worming their way into her cold heart. And so she'd sworn to support them, to devote her life to the cause of equality, to _give back_ to the people that gave her shelter when no one else would.

Years passed. Blake changed. And so, unfortunately, did the White Fang.

Pushed to extremes in the wake of race riots and political oppression, the once-peaceful political movement was reborn as a terrorist faction, one that preyed on the weak and often caught innocent faunus in its cross-hairs. And in the faces of the White Fang's victims, she saw _herself:_ the girl she'd been, all those years ago, tread on and ignored like she was some kind of animal.

 _That_ was a pain she couldn't bear.

So she ran. Even as her former family hounded at her heels, and her name became a _curse,_ she ran. She _ran_ , she _kept running_ , and she never looked back.

Family, she'd learned, was overrated. Because losing it was inevitable – and the pain of losing one's family cut deeper than a sword ever could.

That was Blake's truth, a bitter truth that she was forced to live through, time and time again.

" _Weiss!_ " Blake screamed, her eyes widening in horror.

She'd watched, terror beating in her heart, as her teammate was launched through the air. Watched, hot tears streaking down her soot-stained cheeks, as the tower walls buckled from the force of her teammate's impact.

Weiss had never been... durable. She was quick on her feet, but was as fragile as the ice she conjured. After being decked by a Paladin, hard enough to send her through Beacon's walls... Blake's enhanced vision wasn't good enough to let her see her teammate's landing, but her accursed imagination filled in the blanks.

The heiress' chances of surviving were low. She was injured and outgunned, and low on ammunition. None of her allies were in a position to help; Port and Oobleck were evacuating the other students, the Altesian military had been routed, Grimm were swarming the area, and... and...

..and the Paladin _pursued_ her, smashing its way into the tower, boxing her in, its weapons glowing hot with dust-laced ammunition.

 _Weiss was going to die_.

"Not you too... _please_..." she whispered, a hollow plea to a god that never seemed to answer back.

She didn't deserve to have her prayers answered... because all of this, all of it, was _all her fault_.

– " _I'll make it my personal mission... to destroy everything you love,"the man said, his crimson eyes flashing behind the Grimm mask that obscured them. His voice was heavy with regret, as though_ she _was the one guiding his merciless hand, as though it was_ her _fault that his blade carved a bloody trail through the streets of Vale -_

If she'd been stronger – if she wasn't so useless, if she hadn't failed, if she had steered Adam away from his warpath, if she'd _beaten_ him, _Yang_ wouldn't have been injured, _Ruby_ wouldn't be missing, and _Weiss_... she wouldn't be... wouldn't be...

She choked back a sob.

"Come on! We've got to help her!" Neptune cried, despair in his eyes. He wasn't doing much better than Blake was; his uniform was in tatters, his blue hair was matted with blood and his torso was dotted with laser burns. He staggered to his feet, using his trident like a crutch – only to be stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder.

Blake's heart went out to the injured teen, but she couldn't bring herself to speak. Her hand closed around Yang's limp fingers, and she squeezed tightly, praying for a miracle.

A shout roused her from her waking nightmare.

"Neptune," Sun snapped, his voice as cold as ice, "sit down."

"We have to do something!" Neptune snarled, slapping aside his teammate's hand. "Dude, she's one of _us_! Are you gonna sit on your ass while she gets pasted?"

Sun replied with extreme prejudice, his fist snapping forward and burying itself in his teammate's gut. Blake's amber eyes widened in shock as Neptune buckled beneath the blow, the wind driven from his lungs. His trident tumbled to the ground, and he followed shortly after.

"For an 'intellectual', you can be so freaking _dense,_ " Sun growled, as he glared down at his coughing teammate. "You're out of Aura. If a love-tap from me did _that_ to you, what do you think would happen if you tried to take on a Paladin? Our ride's almost here, and I'm _not_ gonna lose any more friends to that thing."

"That right?" Neptune grunted, as he spat blood onto Sun's shoes. "Well, you just lost another friend, and it's not the damned robot's fault."

Sun's grip tightened on Neptune's collar, and hurt flashed in his eyes – but he swallowed it, and glared daggers at his teammate.

"I'd rather _lose_ a friend than _bury_ one," he snapped, "so take a seat, Neptune, before I _make_ you."

A quiet voice broke them from their rage.

"...Excuse me... Sun?"

"This is a bad time, Ren," snarled the monkey faunus, his eyes furious golden locked on his teammate's. "What is it?"

"I'm terribly sorry for the interruption, but... you might want to turn around," Ren replied, his voice thick with tension. Blake's ears twitched nervously at the sound, and her amber eyes settled intently on his own.

"Something's happening in the tower."

His face was unusually pale, and his green jacket was stained black with blood, but he moved with the strength of a man possessed. Staggering to his feet, he visibly swayed, _Stormflower_ clasped gingerly in his shaking hands.

Nora sat beside him... and, strangely enough, the talkative redhead was completely silent. She made no move to stand. Her mouth hung open in an expression of shock and disbelief, and her eyes were fixed on something over Sun's shoulder.

Blake followed her gaze.

Light flashed through the derelict tower's windows, and the unmistakable sound of automatic gunfire echoed across the battlefield. Sparks flew, and steel glinted in the dim light they provided. Though Blake had enhanced vision, courtesy of her Faunus heritage, it had its limitations – and the tower was too far away for her to get a clear picture of what was happening. But what she'd seen all pointed to one conclusion.

"She's... she's still alive, she's still fighting," breathed Neptune.

The battered students stared at the tower for a moment, shocked... all of them, except for one.

His brow furrowed, his teeth clenched, and his face was set in a stony expression – rage flickered in the teen's eyes, a rage that she'd never thought he was capable of.

"And I'm going to make sure she stays that way."

Before anyone could stop him, the blue-haired _king of cool_ staggered to his feet and charged at his teammate's back. Sun turned around, surprise etched into his features, but he wasn't prepared for the shoulder he took to the gut. Aura or not, the strength of the blow buckled the monkey faunus, knocking the wind out of him, pushing him aside – and Neptune began sprinting towards the tower, as fast as he could, his feet eating up the ground beneath him.

"Neptune! Dammit, not you too! Get back!"

Neptune ignored his leader's command and charged, his spear collapsing into its energy rifle variant as he approached the tower. He heard footsteps, and picked up the pace, convinced that the shadow in the corner of his eye was Sun – and surprise pulsed through his heart as Ren fell into step beside him, his dark aura flickering like a dying flashlight.

 _He wasn't alone_.

The two teens locked eyes, and silent understanding passed between them. This was what being a Huntsman meant: standing against the darkness, fighting to save those who couldn't save themselves. It wasn't an easy road, but then, no road worth walking was. And, at the end of the day, all they had was each other.

If either one stopped moving, if they _gave up_... they weren't worthy of the name. That grim determination fueled them, lending strength to their aching limbs.

"Come on... we're almost there..." huffed Neptune, his gaze returning to the tower.

The shadows shifted, a voice rang out from inside the tower -

\- and the whole world seemed to shake as a massive explosion rocked Beacon Academy.

* * *

Ruby Rose was _angry_.

She'd never been truly _angry_ before; surrounded by friends and content in her naiveté, she grew up believing in a world of fairy tales and kind words, a world where everyone was good inside and everyone worked together to stand up to the Grimm threat. Even the death of her mother hadn't changed that. if anything, it had reinforced her beliefs; no person could possibly be _bad_ , not as long as Grimm prowled through the forests. Sure, people might not get _along_ , and there were probably _some_ bad apples in the bunch, but... nobody could be truly _evil_. She'd been so secure in her beliefs, so content.

Until recent events had called that security into question.

Penny's death, the Grimm invasion, Torchwick's mad speech about survival of the fittest... they'd awoken her to the truth. To the truth that the world was a terrible place, where good people _died_ at the hands of terrible people who just didn't _care_ about the Grimm, about humans or faunus, or about _anything_ except money and power, where worse enemies lurked _within_ the walls of civilization than outside of it, and – and –

And she _hated_ that truth.

As she fell from the airship she'd sabotaged, she'd seen Pyrrha and Cinder fighting on top of Beacon's tower, and a hungry fire had ignited in her chest. After all, the Invincible Girl had never been beaten in a fight; she had the highest combat scores in their generation, and a streak of tournament wins beyond compare. If anyone stood a chance against Cinder... it would be _her_.

But once their weapons were drawn, and the fighting began... Ruby was forced to reassess her position.

Pyrrha had been driven to the ropes. She'd been tossed around like a rag-doll; her sword had been snapped in two. Everything she had – her Semblence, her weapons, her combat skill – Cinder had an answer for... and the sheer _power_ the crazy woman possessed tilted the fight entirely in her favor.

Worse still... it seemed like she was _toying_ with Pyrrha, throwing her weight around and causing as much destruction as possible, eyeing her opponent all the while like a Beowulf eyed its dinner. Ruby knew, knew without a doubt, that Cinder was going to sieze victory... and given that her idea of victory involved mass casualties, it didn't take much effort to see where the cards were going to fall.

Cinder was planning to kill the Invincible Girl. And that _pissed her off._

So, instead of slowing her descent with Crescent Rose, Ruby did something really, really stupid: snarling, she positioned her sniper-scythe at her hip and pulled the trigger.

 _Crack!_

The rapport of her rifle echoed into the distance like a thunderclap, and the recoil sent her flying through the air... but, instead of slowing her descent, it _sped it up_.

 _Crack! Crack!_

After hitting something near terminal velocity, she enhanced her strength with Aura, and held her scythe out behind her, the blade twisted sideways and bit into the wind like a boat's rudder. The breeze caught on Crescent Rose's massive blade, and slowly but surely, her _fall_ was turned into a _glide_.

Ruby soared through the air, her crimson cape twisting wildly in her wake. She was forced to keep her eyes shut, with all of the wind in her face – but the _heat_ of Cinder's wild attacks scorched at her cheeks, and she would have been _blind_ to miss the bright fire blasts that marked her landing zone, so bright that they shone like beacons through her closed eyelids.

The blasts stopped... and through squinted eyes, Ruby saw one of Cinder's arrows sink deep into Pyrrah's ankle. The Invincible Girl collapsed to her knees, her face white with pain, her vibrant emerald eyes sunken with fatigue. Cinder leisurely strolled towards the downed hero, grinning madly, an obsidian bow materializing in her hands, an arrow knocked within it-

-and Ruby knew she needed to be faster.

Gritting her teeth, and knowing that it was going to _hurt_... she triggered her Semblance.

The space around her compressed and folded, removing her wind resistance entirely. Ruby zipped through the open air like a bullet, faster and faster, streaking towards the tower in a tornado of red rose petals.

" _Pyrrha! Hold on!_ " she shouted, her silver eyes locked on her wounded classmate.

The red-head looked up in surprise, as did Cinder.

Realizing what was about to happen, Cinder drew back her arrow, its razor-sharp tip angled towards Pyrrha's chest –

\- Pyrrha used the last of her strength to jump, reaching for Ruby, her emerald eyes flashing with desperation -

\- and an explosion ripped through the tower, knocking Cinder off her feet.

The arrow went wild, soaring into the blackness of the night, and Ruby collided _violently_ with Pyrrah, tackling her with the force of a small freight train. The impact knocked Ruby senseless, and something in Pyrrha's leg popped sickeningly, but the little reaper's battle-honed reflexes held true; she clamped down on the wounded warrior, even as her own shoulder was ripped from its socket.

Heat – burning, scalding heat – licked at her heels, and something struck her in the head, but that didn't stop her. Crying out in pain, she _heaved_ \- and the Invincible Girl's was dragged with her has she cleared the lip of the tower. Unconscious, and injured, but very much _alive_.

Ruby Rose smiled, content, even as darkness crept into the edges of her vision. She'd done it. She'd saved Pyrrha.

She closed her eyes and fell.

* * *

The ravenette stirred.

She wasn't sure where she was; her hands pawed at sand, black sand, sand that ran through her fingers and onto the scorched earth. Fingers ran through her hair, a soothing gesture that roused her from her slumber. Something shifted beneath her, something with bright yellow hair, something that softly mouthed her name.

Her ears – all four of them – rang like church bells. She brought up her hand to them, and it came away wet, wet with something red.

She tensed as pain lanced through her abdomen. And in that instant, everything came rushing back: the burning in her muscles, the aching in her lungs, the heat of the Paladin's self-destruction on her face – and the memories of what she'd seen, what she'd done.

She doubled over, biting back a curse. The agony of it drove her senseless for a while. Her focus was entirely on her breathing, and on her beating heart, trying to get it under control.

"-that's it, Blakey... shh, it's okay..." the voice murmured, cracking softly. It was distant, faint – but familiar.

A hand wrapped comfortingly around her waist. One hand, alone, because its companion was missing.

"Yang," Blake whispered. She swallowed thickly, licking her dried lips. She tried to say something, but the words wouldn't come out. Tears, unbidden and unwanted dripped from her cheeks. A heat brewed in her belly - s _hame._

"Relax. You did good," her teammate murmured, those violet eyes of hers giving her a knowing look. "You're okay. You did all you could... and you saved me. I'm here."

Blake swallowed the lump in her throat, and found herself unable to meet her teammate's eyes. Instead, she quickly glanced away, her gaze settling on the fountain at the center of the courtyard.

Or, rather, what was left of it.

The courtyard was in ruins. The lush grass had been scorched, leaving behind empty fields of ash. The fountain had been torn asunder, like someone had fed the pristine marble into a grinder and spread the pieces out over the yard.

The tower itself was _gone_ from the third floor up, its skeletal remains scattered about the courtyard like tombstones. Small fires licked along the grounds, glutting themselves on leftover dust, scraps of furniture, and... bodies.

Blake didn't look too closely at those. Her amber eyes, unfocused, settled on something else: the smoking crater where her teammate, where Ruby's _partner_ , used to be. Grief swelled in her heart. It was too much, too fast. She spoke, before she even realized what she was saying, and the words tumbled out of her mouth with a mind of their own.

"Weiss, she... I'm sorry, this was all my-"

The hand tightened around her midsection, cutting her short. Those violet eyes settled on hers again, nailing her in place like a butterfly with its wings pinned.

"Don't."

The ravenette bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood.

"Kitty-cat... sometimes, bad things happen. It's nobody's fault," Yang sighed, glancing at the bloody bandages were her right arm used to be.

"But I-"

"Stop blaming yourself. It makes me _yang-ry_. I swear, keep talking and I'm going to beat the hell out of you with my stump," she grumbled. The familiar words, the little jokes – they tugged at her heartstrings, and roused her from her grief. Perhaps their situation wasn't hopeless after all. Yang had already forgiven her; maybe, someday, she could forgive herself. A bittersweet smile made it Blake's lips.

"Now... help me up," The smile left as quickly as it came.

"Yang-"

"Help me up," she demanded, her eyes flashing red. "I saw what happened – I was... half-awake for the end of it. We're... we're going to find her body. We're not leaving her in there to _burn_." Her voice rose and fell, ending in a whisper – and a promise.

Blake could only nod.

* * *

The latter half of team RWBY stumbled through the wreckage of their former home.

Yang, despite her missing arm, proved to be in better shape than Blake. The wound the cat faunus had taken was incredibly painful, and once the adrenaline had worn off, she wasn't able to stand. Yang had the perfect remedy: the blonde bruiser looped her arm under Blake's shoulders, hefted her to her feet, and began half-carrying her towards the tower.

Blake didn't protest. She didn't have the energy, or the will. Every brush of the woman's hand, every breath that tickled her ears, let her know that the woman beside her was still _standing_ , was still _alive_... and that was enough.

And so the two friends hobbled through the wasteland that was Beacon's courtyard, skirting around the shattered masonry.

As they walked, the bodies rose to their feet, and fell into step beside them. Nora, dragging her hammer in one hand, blood leaking from a steel spike that had pierced her shoulder. Sun, his shirt torn and bloodied, his fangs bared, one of his pant legs stained with blood from an unseen injury.

The four of them stumbled across the battlefield, completely silent.

And, as they walked, they stumbled upon two more bodies.

These ones didn't move.

"Ren," breathed Nora, the first word she'd spoken since the fighting began. Dropping her hammer where it lay, she scrambled over to her teammate, tripping over loose stones in her haste, and collapsed onto all fours beside him. She brought a hand to his cheek, cupping it tenderly – and at her touch, he stirred.

"Nora," her teammate murmured, a pained smile on his lips. His aura, weakened as it was, had protected him from the blast; his clothing was a little singed, and light burns marred his chest and shoulders, but he was alive, he was _awake_ , and he was _talking_. Tears sprang to Nora's cheeks, gleaming in the flickering firelight, but not as bright as her smile.

Sun stopped, mid-step, his eyes on the second body.

Slowly, very slowly, he resumed walking... but something was different about him. His footsteps lacked the energy they'd once held, the fear that had propelled him across the wasteland in search of his teammate. They tapped out the beat of a funeral dirge on the shattered concrete walkway. Grief ate at his heart. All he'd wanted to do was find his friend.

He'd succeeded.

Sun collapsed to his knees, staring listlessly at Neptune's chest, waiting to see it rise and fall.

It never did.

Yang and Blake continued forward, walking past the monkey-faunus. Blake kept her gaze steadfastly ahead, pretending not to notice the way Sun's shoulder's seized, the way his breath hitched, the way he set his hand on his teammate's heart, only to pull it away sharply, his horrified gaze locked on his bloodstained fingers - because if she did, if she _saw_ , she'd have to stop and turn around...

...and she had her own teammate to grieve.

The two teammates staggered forward. As they approached the tower, it became harder and harder to move; the open ground became choked with debris, and heavy smoke filled the air, burning their lungs and singeing their eyes.

At some point, Blake's legs gave out completely; so Yang picked her up, in a one-armed fireman's carry, and together, they foraged on, climbing hills of stones and steel beams that used to make up their home.

And they saw something they didn't expect to: a splash of red amidst the dreary backdrop of twisted metal and smashed concrete.

" _Ruby!_ " Yang shouted, her heart leaping into her throat. Adrenaline rushed through her veins, her eyes shifted colors, and it took everything she had _not_ to unleash her semblance. She rushed forward, Blake resting across her shoulders, kicking up stones in her wake, stumbling and slipping but _never_ falling, _never_ slowing, until she made it to her sister's body.

For a half-second, Yang feared the worst. Her baby sister was lying on the ground, her tattered cloak strewn across her, rose petals blanketing her limp body. The llittle reaper's clothing was mix of black and red, so she couldn't tell how much of the red coating her was _fabric_ and how much of it was _blood_. Her arm was twisted at a horrendous angle, stretching out behind her limply like a rag doll's.

The blonde bombshell set Blake down, and then knelt next to her fallen sister, putting an ear to her chest. Yang had never been a religious person, but she found herself praying for a sign – praying for her sister to be okay.

"I did it," a voice mumbled, tickling her golden locks.

Her prayers were answered.

Silver eyes opened slowly, unfocused, as though they were caught in a waking dream. Chapped lips parted, and gave a tired smile.

"I _did_ it, guys," she said, her words slurring together drunkenly. "I... I saved Pyrrha. It was pretty awesome. I went really, _really_ fast."

Blake glanced up, and realized that Pyrrha was laying beside Ruby, sprawled listlessly across the ground. Her emerald eyes, ringed with fatigue, were shut. Bloody welts and scrapes covered her from head to toe, burns licked up and down her arms, her knee had been shattered and her ankle was a bloody _mess_ – but she was _alive_ , her chest rising and falling quietly _._ And now that the fight had ended, she would stay that way.

Yang cupped her sister's head tenderly, before raising it onto her lap.

"Rubes... you're amazing," she whispered. Her eyes were red, not with rage, but with unshed tears.

"Mmm. Stop it," the younger girl mumbled, her silver orbs slipping shut. "You're embarrassing me.."

Yang laughed. It was desperate, relieved, happy and terrified, all rolled into a single package that tore itself out of her lungs and left her throat raw.

"It's what I do,," she giggled.

Suddenly, Ruby's eyes snapped open. She stared up at her sister, then at the hand in her hair – and at the bloody stump that Yang was trying to hide from view.

"Yang... your arm..." whispered Ruby, comprehension dawning. Yang avoided her prying gaze, her lips pressed together in a hard line.

Her sister's arm was missing. It was _gone_. And... something else was missing too. Something important. Some _one_ important. Her muddled thoughts swam, the room spun, and she felt like throwing up. Closing her eyes, she searched for the word that she wanted to use – the missing thing, the person that was white and wore lady-stilts and stabbed things with a _really cool_ sword that glowed funny colors when she did her dance-move-thing.

The name left her lips before she could remember it.

"Where's... where's Weiss?" Ruby asked, clutching at her temples.

No one answered her.

Blake glanced over the bodies of her teammates, towards the smashed remains of the tower.

It should have been easy to say the words. Death was nothing new to Blake Belladonna; she'd _lived_ it, and for far longer than any other person should have. She'd seen plenty of people die, many of which were by her own hand. She was accustomed to death... and yet, the words wouldn't leave her lips.

But _this_ death weighed on her like none of the others had. Weiss' death had been caused, albeit indirectly, by her actions. That knowledge, that guilt, ate at her, stilling her tongue... but she needed to say it. She had to. It was her _duty_ , her _responsibility_... to one of her few remaining friends.

"She's-"

Abruptly, Blake's amber eyes widened in shock. The ravenette stood, ignoring the crippling pain in her abdomen... and focused her enhanced vision on the doorway. She peered anxiously through the flickering flames and the clouds of smoke, even as the effort made her swoon.

Sure enough, _something_ was stirring within the tower's remains. Not something, but _someone_ – someone who was wading through the flames and twisted steel, taking slow, measured steps. The figure's outline was blurred by the smoke and heat, but she caught sight of something peculiar – something that sent a thrill of hope into her heart.

That someone had _hair as white as snow_.

"- _there_ ," she breathed.

Yang jerked her head up, her gaze fixed intently on the hole in the tower walls... and she inhaled sharply. Ruby followed her gaze, her head lolling lazily to the side – and she stared, vacantly, at the smoking crater where the tower used to be.

" _Shit_ ," Yang breathed.

Weiss emerged from the veil of smoke, hovering listlessly above the ground. Her dress was scorched and caked with soot; it hung in tatters around her, barely concealing her modesty. Myrtenaster was absent from her hand, which hung limply by her side. Blood ran down her face and shoulder, and glistened beneath the hem of her tattered battle-dress.

Her eyes were closed.

" _Weiss_!" cried Blake, her heart hammering in her chest. She took a hobbling step – and stopped, stumbling backwards, as a _second figure_ emerged from the flames, a man that towered over the heiress in his arms.

The first thing she noticed was his hair. It was white - _Schnee_ white - and cropped short, its edges flecked with blood. Red cloth - perhaps some sort of burial shroud - wrapped around his arms and torso, overlaying form-fitting armor that highlighted a battle-hardened physique...

...or at least it _would_ have, if it weren't hanging loosely from his frame, filled with dozens of tears and gouges. It looked like the man had stepped into a blender, but he didn't appear worse for wear. His eyes, hard and sharp as diamonds, glinted with mirth.

"...I'm guessing," he drawled, "that _this_ belongs to _you_."

* * *

 **[Review]:** As always, rate, review, let me know what you think.


	3. Chapter 3: Bleached White

**[Author's Note – Fell the Tempest]**

 **[Questions]:** If anyone has questions about the story, its characters, or the setting, feel free to ask away in the reviews. Starting with this chapter, I'll try to provide answers to questions you have without giving any spoilers.

 **[Re: Shirou's Strength] [Edited]:** Some reviewers have expressed their concerns over Shirou's power relative to the Paladin, and I want to touch on that.

A Paladin's punch is strong enough to shatter four-foot-thick concrete freeway supports, which can take about 1400 tons of force before shattering. That's the weight of 360 jet liners compressed into the size of a fist. It takes about 240 pounds of force to crush a skull with a single punch, and even if a Servant were 10,000 times more durable than the average human, they'd still get crushed beneath a punch like that. On the other hand, Yang Xiao Long survived a direct hit from a Paladin, and then beat it in a one-on-one fight.

This is just one example of RWBY's cast doing something that would put them in the same tier as a Servant. Others include Ruby's ability to run so fast she _blurs_ , Penny's ability to lift 10-ton boulders with metal wires as thin as _fishing line_ , and the very existence of Semblances - which are basically Reality Marbles, manifestations of someone's soul.

Doesn't really make sense that average people should be as strong as Servants or Counter Guardians, does it? Servants are supposed to represent the pinnacle of human strength, modified by their legends. They're supposed to be bonafide badasses. No mortal should be able to eclipse their power.

In short: Servants are strong relative to average people in the Nasuverse, just like Paladins are strong compared to people in their own universe. But while characters from the Nasuverse operate on a sliding scale of strength, the strength of RWBY's cast relies heavily on cartoon physics, and conceptually the universes are very different - so trying to compare the strengths of each on the same scale doesn't really work.

 **[Re: Story Flow] [Edited]:** In order to make the story flow better, I had to come to a decision: how to approach this story with regards to their strengths. I had a few options: either I would make Shirou even stronger so that he'd walk all over pretty much everybody, or I'd have to nerf everyone in the RWBY universe and grossly understate their strengths. That way, the concept of a 'heroic spirit' would be satisfied... because Heroic Spirits need to be OP.

Neither of those appealed. I don't want Shirou to be able to walk over everyone and everything without a challenge. I want some people - like Cinder Fall with her Maiden powers, or Salem, or maybe Ozpin - to require him to go all out and deploy Unlimited Blade Works should he ever fight them. Otherwise the story has no element of tension or risk, and fights have no meaning if there's no chance of losing.

Instead, I went with a third option. I'm going to write the story in a way that showcases Shirou as a freaking _strong_ fighter, on roughly the level of Cinder or Ozpin, but _not_ as a god. He's _not_ going to cruise through every battle without breaking a sweat.

Now that we've established that, it's time to carry on with the story.

* * *

 **[Chapter Three: Bleached White]**

The man's appearance sent a shiver down Blake's spine.

Maybe it was the way his sunset eyes, deep-set and burning with fierce intelligence, glinted in the firelight. Maybe it was his hair – blindingly white, framing his noble features like a crown of bleached bone. Maybe it was the way he moved, how he leisurely _prowled_ through the middle of a war zone – as though he were at home in the chaos and bloodshed that had taken so much from so many.

Maybe it was the way he reminded her of Adam.

 _Gambol Shroud_ materialized in Blake's grip. She wasn't sure when she'd drawn it, or why her hands were shaking, or why her chest was beating like a war drum. Something wicked stirred in her heart, something as black as the clothes she wore – and it took every ounce of restraint she had _not_ to pull the trigger.

In her peripheral vision. Blake saw Yang following her lead; the blonde bruiser crouched over her little sister and raised one-half of _Ember Celica_. Her weapon gleamed in the flickering firelight – as did her crimson eyes.

A choking silence filled the air, stealing their breath away more efficiently than the hot ash that whispered at their feet.

"Nice to meet you too," he murmured, raising an eyebrow.

" _Stow it."_ The words left Yang's lips like bullets from a gun. "Who are you?"

"The man who saved your friend's life," he said. An amused sneer parted his lips, like his words were part of some cosmic joke that only he was privy to. "You're welcome, by the way."

" _Thanks_. Now hand her over."

The stranger gave their ragtag group of survivors a once-over. His eyes hovered briefly on Ruby – and on her massive scythe – and he blinked.

"No."

"Come again?" _Ember Celica_ clacked into position, primed and ready to fire.

The man sighed, and nonchalantly turned his back on the girls.

Blake twitched, not at all amused. Not for the first time, she contemplated putting a round in the stranger's back - he deserved it, after all. Injured or not, she and Yang were armed and capable fighters. Either he was cocky, or he was a fool. Both options left a sour taste in her mouth - but she couldn't pull the trigger, for fear of hitting Weiss. Dust rounds were meant to pierce thick hide and solid bone alike, and human flesh wasn't nearly as strong

And if anything happened to Weiss - she wouldn't be able to forgive herself.

The man's sunset eyes fixated on something in the blazing tower, and he scowled. "Hmm. Given the burning desks, I'm guessing this place was once a school. Given your inability to count, I'm guessing that you didn't attend it."

Yang sputtered indignantly. " _What_?"

He cast a wary glanced at the blonde bruiser, and gestured with his chin. "Look around, _girl_. The battle rages on. Staying here is suicide. You need to evacuate, but there are too many wounded here for you to carry out."

"We can handle _ourselves_ just fine," Yang spat, gnashing her teeth.

"Really?" The man raised an eyebrow, and glanced at each of the girls in turn. "Blondie, you're strong, but in case you haven't noticed, you're missing an arm. Your carrying capacity is limited to _one_. And you've got _three_ incapacitated teammates, one of whom looks like she tried knocking on heaven's door with her _face._ I'm surprised she's functioning at all."

"I'm really - _not_ ," Ruby huffed, holding a hand to her head. "I can't feel my _anything_."

Yang's brow furrowed... and slowly, reluctantly, she lowered _Ember Celica._

Blake's ears flattened, and she quickly revised her opinion. Perhaps he wasn't a fool. He'd turned his back as a show of force - and Yang was buying in, falling to his bluff. Couldn't she see the threat he posed?

"Case in point." His gaze dropped to Weiss, crawled in his arms like a newborn babe, her cheeks stained with blood; his scowl softened, but his words were no less harsh. "If I hand the girl over to you, you're all going to _die_ , and the idea of kids getting themselves killed doesn't appeal to me. So, now that we've established that you _need_ my help... where are we heading?"

"The shuttles."

Ruby shifted beneath her older sister, and forced herself to her knees. The little reaper's pale face, smudged with dirt and grime, went three shades whiter – and she swayed to the side, into Yang's waiting arm. Lavender eyes drank in her appearance, and concern flickered in their depths.

"The... shuttles," Ruby mumbled, her breath tickling Yang's throat. "We need to..."

"Shh. Let me handle this," Yang murmured, cradling Ruby's head into her shoulder. She looked conflicted, her face pinching up like she'd swallowed something sour, but the intensity in her eyes – the resignation they held – chilled Blake to the bone.

"There's an air strip," Yang began, her tone grim. "If Beacon needed to be evacuated, that's where the students would go. I've been... out of commission, but given the lack of bodies, I'm guessing they're already evacuating. It's not far from here."

"Good to know. We should get moving."

Blake's fraying nerves _snapped,_ and she couldn't hold back her rage any longer.

The ravenette took a step forward and raised Gambol Shroud, pinning the white-haired stranger in between the crosshairs. One bullet would be all it took – if the man was injured, and his injuries weren't healing, it mean that he was out of Aura. He only stood ten feet away, and at that distance, there was no way she'd miss. Killing wasn't something she enjoyed, and it wasn't what she wanted, but if it meant that her family could be _safe_ , then -

"Blake," Yang hissed.

" _Yang_ ," she spat, her ears flat and her canines bared, "think about it. A total stranger, who won't give his name, just so _happens_ to be in the middle of Beacon during an invasion. And you want to lead him to the landing pad, where he'll by surrounded by injured students that can't defend themselves?"

Blake risked a glance at her teammate, and her amber eyes flashed with anger. "Are you _insane_?"

"In defense of her sanity, I'm _already_ surrounded by injured students that can't defend themselves." Mirth oozed from the stranger's smirk like blood from an open wound, and Blake's finger twitched on the trigger of _Gambol Shroud_.

Yang grimaced, but she kept her voice steady. "Blake, I _know_ it's risky, but Weiss is on a timer and we don't have any other options. He's right. We _need_ him."

"Do we?" She glanced at the man's tattered clothing, and narrowed her eyes. "Maybe he's injured. Maybe he can't take us in a fight. Maybe that's why he kept Weiss alive, to get us to _trust_ him – and he'll stab us as soon as our backs are turned."

The stranger took a step forward, and then another. His steely eyes flashed with some bitter emotion – annoyance – and his lips drew a hard line. Closer and closer, he approached – and a note of fear, of doubt, settled in Blake's heart. The gun in her hands began to shiver and shake, even as he pressed his armored chest against its barrel.

"If I'd wanted to kill you," he said, his brow furrowed, "I _would_ have – though right now, I'm _reconsidering_ my decision to spare you, since you're standing between the girl in my arms and the hospital bed she needs."

The confidence in his voice froze her where she stood.

Blake's eyes dipped, and she mutely took in Weiss' appearance – though she quickly wished she hadn't. Her enhanced senses made the experience far too real. She could trace the outline of every cut that marred her teamate's pale flesh, and her sensitive hearing picked up the nauseating _grinding_ of broken bones as the man adjusted his grip. And in the air, she could taste the metallic tang of blood. _Schnee_ blood.

Her stomach quivered, and she tried to swallow – but she found that her mouth was dry.

"You're right not to trust me. Trust is something that takes _time._ But right now, you don't _have_ that luxury." The stranger continued, staring unflinchingly through the crosshairs of _Gambol Shroud._ His voice was thick with disappointment. "Your only hope of survival – yours, and your friends' – lies with _me_. Are you going to throw that away?"

"...No," Blake murmured, hesitantly lowering her gun. "No, I'm not."

"Then let's get going," he said. "We don't have time to waste."

* * *

Cinder hated unknowns.

After all, _knowledge is power_ – and she aimed to be the most powerful of _all._ Powerful enough to overthrow the Kingdom of Vale and its false gods.

Unknowns represented a chink in her armor, a weakness to be stamped out.

In coordinating the invasion, she'd made every arrangement, planned for every contingency. She'd single-handedly orchestrated the destruction of Beacon's reputation, fraying the alliance between Ozpin and his merry band of fools. She'd assumed control of the Altesian army, and _turned_ those metal husks on the innocent people they were supposed to be protecting.

Then, she'd hacked into the CCT, overrun its regular news programming with her own pirate broadcast... and streamed live video of the carnage.

Because of her actions, millions of souls throughout Remnant would be staring at their television screens in horror, watching in wide-eyed disbelief at the sight of the wholesale slaughter of Vale. And in the coming days, in the dark corners of seedy bars and government offices alike, one name would be whispered.

 _Hers_.

Because the power of a Maiden was an incredible boon, one that she rightly deserved – but it was not her greatest asset. No, what separated Cinder from the rabble was the _fear_. _Fear_ , that cowed Torchwick and even the White Fang into her service. _Fear_ , that lured the Grimm into her enemies' homes.

 _Fear_ , that made her a Queen in a world of pawns.

When the Paladin had exploded, she'd been caught in the blast – and she'd stumbled, falling to her knees, even as the tower crumbled beneath her. For the first time, all of her meticulous planning had _failed_.

Her first instinct was to pursue Pyrrha and the snot-nosed brat that had stolen her _destiny_ away – and then she sensed it: the _cause_ of her failure.

A power, a power like her own, _magic_ , that washed over her skin in a wave of static and set her heart racing. She was _reeling_ from the purity of it, from the _potency_ of it – and the natural high she experienced had her grinning like a naughty schoolgirl, even as she fell through the broken remains of the tower, untouched by the flames and falling stone. _  
_  
And when she'd recovered – when the power had faded, and she'd glanced over the lip of the decimated tower – she'd seen _him_. Standing there, like a conqueror on the field of battle, his back to her.

At first, when the man strode from the flames, she thought she was looking at _Ozpin_ – and a hot spike of rage seared into her heart. She thought she'd _dealt_ with that pretender. But then her eyes noticed the other little details: the foreign armor, his tanned skin, the way his lithe muscles gleamed in the firelight... and the _power_ that bled off of him in waves, pricking at her skin and sending shivers down her spine.

The sight was... _intoxicating._ She wanted that power. And as the man spoke, his voice as cold as steel, she realized that she wanted _him_. He was an oddity, an anomaly – a _challenge_. A potential enemy... and a perfect target, whose death – or allegiance - _could_ solidify her reign. A sultry grin split her lips, and her arms were suddenly covered in gooseflesh.

First, though... she had to test him. To taste again the _power_ that the stranger concealed.

Cinder closed her eyes, and with a shiver of anticipation, activated her semblance.

She felt her mind warp and twist as it extended, reaching for something in the distance, something far beyond her – and she felt the _rage_ of dozens of nearby Grimm. Once, their minds had been alien to her touch, but those days were long gone. Instead, she sensed within them the same burning desire that filled her every waking moment: to _consume_... to _burn_.

But she stiffened, sucking in a quick breath, as her consciousness brushed against a mind she didn't expect. One far older, and far more powerful, than any she'd ever touched before; a mind with a sickly weight _,_ with a _hunger,_ that dwarfed those of the Beowolves clawing at Beacon's gates.

Its stiffened at her touch, as if awakening from a long slumber – and she soothed it, _fed it_ , consumed and _controlled_ it with the darkness in her heart.

Then, she gave a mental command.

Behind her, an explosion of rock and cascading debris ripped through the night sky. A giant maw opened, and a black tongue was drawn hungrily along similarly black teeth. Crimson eyes, each one as large as she was _tall_ , shone with savage hunger beyond compare. Tattered wings, like a bat's, opened – and _eclipsed_ the broken moon, drowning out its light.

Cinder opened her eyes... and even as the beast passed overhead, she kept her eyes fixated on a far greater prize: the man in red. As if sensing her gaze, he turned. Their eyes locked, just for a moment – but that moment was all she needed.

"Dance for me, like a puppet on a wire," she whispered, her cheshire grin showing far too many teeth.

For Cinder hated unknowns... and what she _didn't_ know, she would _destroy_.

* * *

Yang was studious, in her own way.

Despite what her teammates thought, she did pay attention during Oobleck's classes – just not to any of the boring stuff. Politics and History were never her forte. She didn't understand the importance of those subjects; after all, they were being trained to be Huntresses, not freaking politicians.

But, stories about the Grimm? She loved those. They always made her heart race. She used to fantasize about what it would be like... adventuring into the unknown, the breeze at her back, her teammates at her sides, slaying Grimm and saving the day. Those fairy tales inspired her, pushing her harder in her studies and in her practice bouts. They were the fuel that kept her burning.

Now, though... she was staring to regret those fantasies. Every good fairy tale needs a monster, but when the monsters are real, when they outclass you, and the penalty for failure is death... the fairy tale becomes a somber one, and you have to ask: do you really want to know its ending _?_

The dragon's roar shook Yang to the bone, and a wave of heat washed over her. She broke out into a cold sweat, and for the first time since she was a little kid – pulling her baby sister to the strange house in a little red wagon - _fear_ burned in her heart.

But her teammates _-_ her lilac orbs flickered to Blake – they needed her to be strong... so she would be. And she'd _burn_ anything that tried to lay a finger on the people that she cared about.

"So, tough guy... any advice?" Yang quipped. She spared a glance at the white-haired stranger who'd put himself between her teammates and the dragon circling overhead.

His response was short and to the point.

"Yes. Catch."

Yang blinked. "Wait, what?"

The man spun, and tossed Weiss through the air. Heart racing, running on pure instinct, Yang moved to intercept the heiress... only to remember that she was _missing a hand_.

Weiss's limp body smacked into her with the force of a sledgehammer. Normally, that wouldn't have been an issue, but only using one hand made the catch awkward – and Yang slipped on the loose gravel beneath her boots. Her back struck something hard, and hot ash filled her face, bringing tears to her eyes; she coughed, trying to clear her throat of the stuff, but she couldn't move, not with so much weight on her chest.

Yang forced an eye open, glanced down, and saw a veil of white hair.

"I always took you for a _top,_ " she grunted, "but, dammit, you _really_ need to lay off the _Weiss-cream_."

Blake was suddenly above her, her lithe hands grasping at the hem of Weiss' dress – and she heaved, paling with the effort, and pulled the heiress away, setting her gently on the gravel. Her amber eyes flickered with concern – _she's so cute when she's worried_ -

\- and she sucked in a quick breath, her eyes widening in surprise, as a massive greatsword split the earth behind her.

It was one of many. Blake couldn't see them – she wasn't looking up – but Yang could. Steel swords fell by the dozen, glinting in the light of the burning tower, and they were _close_. Too close to avoid.

Fear giving her strength she didn't know she had, Yang wove her hand through Blake's hair and pulled. Ignoring her teammate's startled cry, she used the momentum and _rolled_ atop her teammate, placing her own body between the ravenette and the literal _rain of swords_ at her back.

Her blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing her face like a halo - and shielding her teammate from the horror she was sure to witness. Staring fondly into Blake's amber eyes, Yang smiled... and she braced herself for the pain she knew was coming.

 _Thunk. Thunk. Thunkthunkthunkthunkthunk._

Silence fell... and, much to her surprise, there was no pain.

Slowly, Yang raised her head, and stared at a _wall of swords_ jutting from the earth _,_ inches from her nose.

The blonde bruiser let out a breath she didn't know she was holding, and glanced to her right, her eyes searching for the others. Relief blossomed in her chest, as she saw the others - Ruby, Pyrrha, and Weiss - unharmed... but that relief bled into _fear_ as she kept turning, and she realized the falling swords for what they were. They hadn't formed a wall... they'd formed a _cage_. A cage that trapped them where they lay.

Yang didn't like cages.

She stumbled to her feet, pushing away from Blake... and she raised her her fist, one half of Ember Cecila primed to lash out at the makeshift bars.

"Don't."

The command rooted her in place.

Through a crack between the blades, she saw him standing there without a care in the world _._ He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes.

"Those swords aren't to keep you _in_ , they're to keep those creatures _out_. There are too many for me to worry about about protecting you from yourselves." His gaze settled on something in the distance, and his brow furrowed.

"...Too many?"

Yang followed his gaze – and through the bars of her improvised prison, she saw another wall... but this wall was made of white masks. And it was _moving_. _Hundreds_ of beady red eyes stared back at her.

 _Grimm,_ she realized, a chill running down her spine.

"I'm going to kill the dragon," the man said, tearing her from her thoughts. "In the meantime, stay put and look after your wounded. You'll be safe here. Provide fire support if you can."

Yang snorted, her eyes gleaming with bitter amusement _._ Clearly, the stranger's sense of humor was as poor as his taste in armor. If the man was trying to boost their morale, he was doing a shitty job of it. What kind of jackass made a promise like that to _kids_? A horde of Grimm – Beowolves, Ursae and all - and a freaking _dragon_ circling overhead, and the walking pincushion says he's going to _kill_ it?

She felt the sudden urge to laugh; that urge died as soon as his eyes locked with hers. Because in that moment, she realized something that terrified and excited her.

He was _serious_.

It was in the way he held himself: calm, cool, and collected... and almost _bored_ , like he'd done this sort of thing before. It was the steel in his eyes, the look that her Uncle Qrow got when he talked about his glory days. That kind of steel wasn't something a person could fake... and the sight of it caused something to stir within her breast.

Hope.

" _Wait!_ " someone cried.

Blake pressed herself flush against the bars beside Yang. Her breath came in great gasps, and one of her hands was wrapped around her stomach – but she was _standing,_ her eyes locked pleadingly on the stranger's. "Three of our friends are still out there. If we don't do something, they'll be overrun by the Grimm. We have to save them."

The man grunted dismissively, and turned on his heel. "It would be easier to leave them. Our odds of survival are much greater if my attention isn't diverted."

"We're not leaving _anyone_ behind," shouted Blake, baring her canines. "You're looking out for Weiss, right? Well, if you don't do something, _I_ will. And if anything happens to me, Weiss will _never_ forgive you."

The horde grew closer. The writhing mass of black fur and gnashing teeth grew more detailed. Yang could see the little red lines – red like blood - scrawled across their masks, and their claws, bone-white, kicking up soot as they tore across the courtyard. And the dragon, leering overhead, gave a savage roar – one that chilled her to the bone.

The man took one step forward. One step, towards the Grimm - and then he stopped.

"Children. Always making things harder than they have to be," he murmured. His tone was scathing, but between the locks of snow-white hair that framed his face... Yang thought she saw a smile.

" **Trace, on.** "

His empty hands were filled.

* * *

Shirou hadn't used _that_ weapon in ages.

It was... inefficient. Compared to the other weapons he had at his disposal, stored within the archives of _Unlimited Blade Works_ \- the Noble Phantasms and Mystic Codes that he'd seen in his stint as a Counter Guardian, and others still that he'd glimpsed in the depths Gilgamesh's Vault - it was simply an ordinary tool.

It held no special powers, no augmentations that would make it more effective against the Grimm... or any other creature, for that matter. He couldn't remember why it was in his mind to begin with, or what significance it held. But as it blossomed in his hand, born unto the world in a flash of light and prana, he couldn't help but feel... whole, somehow.

It was a simple wooden bow.

The Counter Guardian reinforced his legs with _od_ and jumped, clearing the lip of the crumbling tower with ease. The woman he'd glimpsed there, minutes earlier – her obsidian tresses and pale skin gleaming as brightly as the fire in her eyes - had long since vanished, but he didn't care.

He suspected that she would find him again, once the fighting had ended. In the meantime, he had other concerns.

Namely, the dragon circling overhead, the army of monsters following in its wake... and the children he'd sworn to protect.

It was a stupid, _irrational_ decision, one of many he'd made that night. He was always summoned during times of war, and in war, _people died_. Once upon a time, he'd struggled against that reality. He'd just wanted to _help_ people, to _save people_ as he'd been saved, pulled from the fire that had killed so many when he was just a boy. It was his dream, his purpose, his _destiny_ , from the moment he'd awoken in that hospital.

And it was a dream he would never attain, a destiny that would never flourish. Because, for all of his strength, for all the sacrifices he'd made, for all of the times he'd martyred himself for people that would never thank him, he'd still been forced to swallow that bitter truth.

 _You can't save everyone._

Because in times of war, people died - and those children... they should have died, too.

Shirou knew that his efforts were wasted on them. If he focused on combating those creatures - the Grimm - instead of saving a handful of children, he could likely make a bigger impact on the war, and save more lives in the long term. Performing human calculus was something that he'd become _good_ at, though it left him hollow every time.

Playing God was weight was not easily carried... especially not by him.

Not by him, a faker, a man who'd never had desires of his own. A man who was condemned to fight a losing battle for all eternity, condemned to watch his dreams die. Any pleasure he derived from his cursed existence was a sin, for it distracted him from his duties. The duties of a king.

A king upon a hill of swords.

He knew that - so why, then, was he _smiling_? Why was the bow's touch _familiar_ , like that of a long lost lover? Why did his calloused hands glide along its string, and why did the tense cabling thrum pleasantly beneath his probing fingers?

The feeling that settled in his heart... was it nostalgia?

He traced an arrow between his fingertips and knocked it. The weight behind the draw was enormous – not something a normal human would have been able to accomplish, not without reinforcement. The fletching brushed against his cheek, but he didn't flinch. His sunset eyes were focused on the dusk, on the horrors that lurked within it... and on the three teenagers, stumbling across the battlefield, fleeing towards the tower.

Their steps faltered... and one of them, dressed in green, stumbled. And the darkness surged forward, a wave of gnashing teeth and slobbering maws, of eyes that knew only two emotions: hatred and hunger.

He watched, from a distance, as they conversed; watched, as they prepared themselves for their final stand.

Left to their own devices, he knew that they wouldn't survive. But if someone were to intervene... if someone were there to _save_ them...

 _– 'Shirou,' she said, her ice-blue eyes studiously avoiding his own. Lithe hands grasped the handle of his bow, and she pressed herself against him. Her cheeks were flushed with outrage, but her gaze held something else entirely. 'You're going to teach me, right?' –_

He singled out a particularly large target – a menacing Grimm, twice as large as its kin, with eyes that burned like coals – and took a steady breath. He _supposed_ he could spare an arrow.

"Let me show you," he murmured.

The bowman let fly.


	4. Chapter 4: This Day And Never Again

**[Chapter Four: This Day And Never Again]**

Pyrrha slept.

It was a pleasant feeling. Fatigue wrapped around her like a downy blanket, soft and comfortable, dragging her eyelids ever downwards. The bed beneath her was soft and warm; her limbs were numb, and pleasantly heavy. She couldn't find it in her to move them. For the first time in what felt like _ages_ , the Invincible Girl relaxed – basking in the gentle heat that washed over her, from her head to her toes. She didn't remember her bed at Beacon being _this_ comfortable, but she wasn't complaining.

She heard something _loud_ , and stirred.

Pyrrha heard voices, somewhere far away. A cool breeze washed over her, and she realized that she must have left her window open. The bed beneath her was unusually soft, conforming to her shape, and the sheets slipping through her fingers like silk filigree. Someone spoke her name, in a hushed whisper. _Probably Ren – he is always so polite._

Something warm pressed up against her, and a hand rested across her stomach, pulling her close. Her heart fluttered in her chest, and for a moment, she wondered if she was dreaming. Her emerald eyes opened, just a crack – and her vision was filled with a golden mane of hair... _Jaune_. She smiled, and her eyes slipped shut; if it was a dream, she wished she could stay in it forever.

Her thoughts were interrupted as something wet struck her on the cheek. Once – then twice. _Tears?_

A nagging feeling settled in her gut, a sense of unease that gnawed at her gut. Jaune hadn't cried in... _months_ , it seemed - not since he'd come forth about his forged transcripts. He'd come a long way since those days, and under her guidance, he'd flourished as a more than a team leader. Her friend, her almost-lover... he'd become stronger, more _confident_ , able to face down danger without batting an eyelash. Under her watchful eyes and careful ministrations, he was slowly becoming everything she knew he could be: a hero of great renown.

But if he were _crying_ \- something must be wrong indeed.. That thought roused her from her slumber, freeing her from her bed's soft embrace.

 _Jaune needed her._

Pyrrha's eyes fluttered, and then opened - at least, she thought they'd opened. She didn't quite remember her room being so _dark._ Fingers, soft and supple, cradled her neck, and a voice whispered her name again - this time, more urgently.

In a half-asleep daze, Pyrrha lifted a hand to her cheek, running her fingers to brush Jaune's tears away.

But something was wrong. The lingering unease, the nervous tension she'd felt moments prior exploded into outright panic... and as Pyrrha glanced at her fingertips, she realized why.

They were stained with red. Red with _blood_.

The dream shattered, and the nightmare began.

Pyrrha's emerald eyes snapped open. Awake and afraid, she reached for Milo, the blade that _usually_ rested by her bedside - but in the darkness, she couldn't _see_ , and her hands fumbled blindly. A moment passed, then two - and she sucked in a quick breath.

 _It's not there, why isn't it there?_

Fear gave way to panic. Why wouldn't it? _Her team was in danger_. And so, without preamble, Pyrrha sat up.

Her vision faded to black, and a wave of agony washed over her with the subtlety of a jackhammer. The sound of gunfire pierced her ears, washing away the waking dreams of soft beds and warm places. She tasted blood, _fresh_ blood, her limbs felt like they were on _fire_ \- and distantly, she heard a voice, letting out an agonized _scream._

Seconds later, Pyrrha realized it was her own _._

"She's awake _. Shit."_

The gunfire ceased. The screaming didn't.

" _Pyrrha._ " Familiar eyes filled her vision – familiar _lilac_ eyes, not royal blue, not _his_. She didn't know where she'd seen them before – it hurt too much, she couldn't think -

"- _Listen_. You've gotta... listen to me. Can you do that? Just – listen to my voice. _Listen, Pyrrha._ " The voice was slow... and oddly soothing. _Familiar._

Pyrrha tried. As hard as she could, she _tried_. The screaming died away.

" _Y-yang_. What..." Her lips were chapped, and her throat was raw, like she'd swallowed a mouthful of the hot ash she was laying in. Her armor was dented and scratched in places – she wasn't sure when _that_ had happened. And – she didn't know knees were supposed to _bend_ that way, was it _hers_? _Was she_ -

"Don't look at that! Eyes on me." Someone's fingers wove through her hair, and gently turned her head away. Her attention was captivated by those eyes, eyes that shone like stars.

"Listen to me. Listen. Okay. You're alive. You're hurt, but you'll be okay. Help is coming, but it's not here yet. We need your help, right now. We _need_ you."

Black spots danced at the edges of her vision, and her eyes threatened to slip shut. With an effort of will, she pushed them back – and with considerable effort, she forced her aching jaw to move.

"It _hurts,_ " she croaked.

Pyrrha had been raised as a fighter, and she was no stranger to combat. As far as her classmates were concerned, she was the best single combatant in their generation, and it was a reputation she'd _earned_. Prior to attending Beacon, she'd spent several years as a combatant in the Mistralian arenas... and she'd enjoyed a three-year uncontested title reign. For a girl in her mid-teens, that was quite an accomplishment.

And in all that time, she'd tasted blood... but it had always been her _opponents_ '. Her semblance, polarity, made her all but untouchable on the battlefield. And as a result of her training, Aura was unusually strong; she'd always been protected from what few blows made it past her defenses.

In short... she'd never really been _hurt_ before. She'd never known _pain, nor the_ feeling of being _broken_. Not like this. The shock, the sheer _panic_ welling in her breast, drove the breath from her lungs and threatened to pull her under once more.

"Shh," said the voice. A hand settled on her shoulder. "It'll be okay. I promise. But right now, we need you to _help_. Please. For _me_ , and for _Jaune_. Can you do that?"

Jaune. _Jaune_. Her teammate, her leader, her friend.

Together, they'd overcome every obstacle, every battle. They'd shed blood together - and he'd never once backed down, not from her grueling training, not from the trials of leadership, and not from the promise of death that awaited him as a Huntsman.

Jaune had been there for her, had seen who she was beneath the mantle of the Invincible Girl... and he had cared for her, supported her, and offered everything short of his life in order to ensure her well-being. Because that was the kind of person he was: a good soul with an iron will, who inspired her in ways he couldn't begin to understand. The bond between them was deeper than friendship - indeed, it was deeper than family.

It was like a switch had been flipped inside of her head. She held onto the image of the person she cherished – _his beautiful blue eyes and golden hair, the way he smiled_ \- and everything else ceased to matter. The pain washed over her like water off a duck's back, unnoticed and discarded.

Yang's eyes widened in disbelief as Pyrrha _rose_ , sitting up on her own power. The redhead's limbs trembled, and her breath game in shaky gasps - but she _moved_ nonetheless, pressing her back against the wall of swords.

Then, the redhead nodded, her bloodshot eyes fixed into a determined glare.

For Pyrrha Nikos _loved_ Jaune Arc, and no matter what challenges she faced, no matter what burdens or pains, she _wouldn't_ let him down.

For Pyrrha Nikos was the Invincible Girl... and she _would not, could not,_ be defeated.

* * *

Beacon's walls had crumbled to the tune of rolling thunder. And the pain in her heart – as the walls of the place she'd come to call _home_ were trampled into powder beneath the feet of the Grimm – was crippling, a pain she wished she'd never have to experience again.

She didn't have time to mourn the loss... and as Nora spared a glance over her shoulder, she realized that she never would.

The airships _._ their ticket home _..._ they were _taking off._ She watched, her lips parting, her heart sinking, as he gunmetal-grey shuttles rose into the night sky. She watched as their engines flared, twinkling like stars in the night watched _,_ as they turned – and like a flock of crows, they soared _away_ from the battlefield, streaking towards the coast in a flash of dust and light.

It took Nora a moment to come to grips with what was happening; and when she did, _Manghild_ nearly fell from her grip. Her steps faltered, her breathing hitched, and she found herself staring mindlessly into the night sky, even as the Grimm approached.

She, and her friends – all of them – were being left behind. They were being abandoned _, by their own teachers,_ to the tender mercies of the Grimm.

A hand wrapped tightly around her wrist, and _yanked_. She stumbled forward, tripping over her own feet and the jutting concrete below.

" _Don't stop_! _Come on_!" Ren shouted. He looked like hell – he was limping heavily, and bleeding from a dozen wounds, and his cheek was was burnt as black as his _hair_ , but his eyes – they shone like _diamonds_ , sharp and fierce, with an emotion that she _knew_ but didn't want to acknowledge.

Nora sucked in a quick breath.

She felt like crying, pulling at her hair – _something_. But as her turquoise eyes locked with Ren's, she knew she had to do better. Had to _be_ better. Because even if she wasn't worth him, even if she couldn't return his affection... he _loved_ her.

He was family... and family _stuck together_.

She tightened her hand around his, squeezing as hard as she could – and she picked up the pace, stumbling along behind him. Sun, their friend, shouted something – she couldn't hear him, over the pounding of her heart – and he fell into step before them, his arms pumping furiously, his chest rising and falling in heavy gasps.

They were _close._ The tower – the only remaining safe spot in the entire yard -was just over the next hill _._ But the Grimm were close, too – close enough that she could taste their stink on the breeze, hear their hungry panting. In the corner of her eyes, she thought she caught a flash of _white teeth_ – and the rush of adrenaline that followed quickened her steps.

All she could think about was the hand in hers, and how it _burned._

"Hurry!" Sun shouted, his sky-blue eyes flashing. "We're almost there! Just a few more -"

There was a whistling sound, and then a _thump_... and her hand was suddenly empty.

Her hand was empty. Her _hand_ was _empty_. _Why_ was it _empty_?

Her steps slowed... and then stopped. Her breath hitched, and her lips drew a hard line.

She turned around.

The horde of Grimm was approaching, but it had slowed, too. They stalked forward, languidly, their toothy maws grinning widely; their paws licked at the earth like fire, swallowing up the hot ash and loose concrete in a tide of black fur and glistening red eyes. And from the pack, stepping forward, emerged something greater, something _more_ terrifying: an _Alpha_ Beowolf _._

But Nora didn't see any of that. Her eyes were on one person, and one person only. A person who was lying on the ground, with a Deathstalker's stinger buried in his back. A person who _wasn't moving_. She closed her eyes... and the wall of Grimm moved forward, bounding over the loose gravel, clawing at the earth.

"No _,"_ she whispered.

Closer still, they crept.

"No, no, no," she said, louder.

 _The world frayed. The Grimm. The ash. Ren. Her voice._

Nora knelt beside the body, and jerked the stinger out of its back. Her hands pawed at the loose, frayed material of Ren's tattered clothing, and she put her fingers to his throat. She stiffened, and pressed a bloodstained hand to his chest.

Her eyes slipped shut.

Sun approached her, his feet scuffing against the loose stones... just as Nora let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Her back straightened, her hands tightened around the hilt of _Manghild_... and she took a step forward.

There were no tears.

Her nerves steadied. Her breathing slowed. The light behind her turqoise eyes – eyes that always seemed to be smiling – shattered, like fine china. She could taste the ozone in the air, the power that pierced her with a thousand needles. And as she took a step forward, towards the crowd of Grimm, a feeling like _peace_ settled in her heart.

A calm before the storm.

" _Nora_?"

Nora pretended she hadn't heard the voice. It washed over her ears, but didn't register. She pretended that she couldn't feel the sky-blue eyes on her back, or the way they filled with concern. Lifting Manghild across her shoulders, she took a deep breath – a cleansing breath - and sighed tiredly.

She was ready.

Rather than meeting his gaze, she stared into the writhing abyss – because, given what she was about to do, it was easier to stare into the maws of a hundred Grimm than to meet the gaze of her friend.

"Ren's alive," she said, her lips drawing a hard line. "But if you don't take him out of here, he's not gonna be. Deathstalker venom works fast. You guys... you guys gotta go."

"Nora," Sun stammered, resting a hand on her shoulder, "what are you-"

" _Sun!_ " she snapped, spinning and batting aside his hand. Nora's green eyes gleamed in the firelight, brighter than usual – and she frowned, glancing away, trying to hide her face from her friend's prying eyes. Sun slowly lowered his hand, watching her with a mix of confusion and betrayal.

"Nora, come with us. I'm _begging_ you. If you stay, you're going to get _hurt_ ," Sun whispered. He glanced to his right – an outdated reflex, searching for someone who wasn't there anymore – and he grit his teeth. His eyes settled on the Alpha Beowolf, which was close enough that he could count every single one of its teeth, even without his enhanced vision. It _cackled –_ a harsh, choking sound, like a _hyena_ – and stalked forward languidly, getting even closer.

There was no escape.

"I'm counting on it."

A tense silence fell between them... and then, Sun broke it.

" _Fuck this!_ Fuck _all_ of this! I'm not letting anyone else die!" His gaze settled on hers, flashing with anger – and she immediately knew she couldn't turn him away. Sun's resolve was set in stone, fierce and prideful; Neptune's death, it seemed, had affected him more than she'd thought. Mere words wouldn't make him turn back now. Death had taken his friend away – and so he swore an oath, an oath that would define him for years to come.

 _This day and never again_.

The monkey faunus folded his bloodied hands together, and in a flash of light, triggered his Semblance. What precious aura he had dwindled even further, as two of his clones manifested in a flash of golden starlight, one on either side of him; Nora stepped back, away from her friend, as they hefted him into the air – and gently carried him towards the tower, moving as fast as they could along the loose rubble and budding flames.

"You have a plan?" Sun asked, his eyes on the horde – and on the Alpha, which stood on its haunches, less than twenty feet away. The beast growled, the sound like gravel rolling over concrete – but its grin hadn't disappeared. The Alpha, he realized, was _toying_ with them, hoping to drink in the last of their negativity before sating itself on their bones.

Sun's expression was grim, but his eyes were full of passion – a mature _determination_ Nora never thought she'd see in the trouble-making teen.

"Yeah, kind of," Nora began, kicking at the dirt.

"...Mind sharing?" He quipped, giving her an amused side-eye.

"I don't want you to watch," she murmured, her eyes darting away nervously. "Ren said I shouldn't do it. Said it's scary. It's not gonna be pretty."

"Nora," Sun replied, his sky-blue eyes surveyed the Grimm, "I have no idea what you're talking about, but I'm pretty sure _impending death_ is scarier. Whatever it is, if it'll get us through this..."

Nora's fingers abruptly relaxed – and she swallowed thickly.

"Well, uh. Do you know what pain is? I mean, what it _really_ is?" She asked, trying to cover up the nervous trill in her voice. Sun didn't respond to her question; then again, she didn't expect him to. "I'm not really a science guy, but Ren kinda is. Anyway, pain - it's all in your head. Y'know. Electrical impulses, generated by the brain. That sorta thing."

Sun's attention settled on her – and his lips settled into a confused frown.

Nora raised a hand to her shoulder – and to the steel spike embedded within it. It resembled a easily as wide across as her wrist, with serrated edges that were coated in her blood. It was a _tremendously_ painful wound, but it wasn't lethal. As long as it remained in her shoulder, the wound wouldn't bleed... and she could fight.

"The greater the pain, the greater the charge."

Where the spike had come from, she couldn't be sure; perhaps it was a piece of the tower's foundation, or debris from one of the many Altesian robots that had been destroyed in the ensuing battle.

"And _electricity,_ it... _"_ she whispered, trailing off.

She might not have known where it came from... but she knew where it was going. Her fingers wrapped around the spike, trembling slightly. Her breath hitched in her throat.

Sun's eyes widened in horror... and in _comprehension -_

\- the Alpha howled, and the army of Beowolves at its heels surged forward -

\- " _.._.it makes me _stronger_."

And, with as much strength as she could muster, Nora _twisted_.

 _Ren's smile was pretty. She hoped it didn't go away. She hoped he wouldn't leave. He was so scared, last time – so upset. And if he found out he might leave. But she hoped he wouldn't, because his smile was pretty. She wanted to remember it, but it was hard, because a wave of icy cold washed over her, spreading out from the rod in her shoulder._

 _She couldn't see his smile, because her vision faded to white. She couldn't tell him it was pretty, because she couldn't breathe, and she couldn't love because she was_ afraid _, afraid and_ angry _, and she couldn't_ touch _him, because she was_ lightning _\- and lightning_ scarred _whatever it touched._

Her turquoise eyes, crackling with electricity, opened - and she charged into the sea of Grimm.

" _Nora!"_ There was a curse – and then the sound of footsteps falling in behind hers.

A Beowolf rose to challenge her, leaping ahead of its pack-mates; Nora twisted on her heel, wound up, and s _lammed_ her hammer into the creature's open maw like an over-sized baseball bat. The Beowolf's head disappeared in a mist of blood and bone, and its body flew back into the waiting crowd of Grimm. Riding the momentum of her swing, she spun on her heel and _threw_ herself into the air, flipping head-over-heels above the hungry maws of a dozen Beowolves, inches from their flashing teeth.

She landed on the back of a Deathstalker – and she guessed, in a flash of insight, that it was the same one that hurt Ren. That knowledge fueled her, sent a fury _roaring_ through her heart – and that fury gave her _strength_.

She swung her hammer down.

Now, Nora's weapon wasn't conventional among huntsmen, for the simple fact that it didn't have an edge. Most fighters relied on bladed weapons in order to slice through the thick hides of the Grimm. Instead of trying to cut through their hides, Nora's weapon ignored them entirely; _Manghild_ wasn't designed to cut, but to _crush_. So when her war hammer slammed into the creature's back, its descent backed by electrically-charged muscles and an unhealthy dose of teenage angst...

...it shattered the Deathstalker's chitinous shell, along with its _spine_.

The creature let out a shriek like nails on a chalkboard, and it dropped to its belly, its legs twitching uselessly beneath it. It flailed about, shuffling back and forth, like a drowning rat... and the screaming stopped, as its head was pasted beneath Nora's bloody hammer.

Cloth rustled - and Sun was suddenly behind her, standing lithely on the back of the Grimm, his staff slung over one shoulder.

Nora rested there for a moment, sparks dancing over her skin, like a cloak of static -

\- and the horde lunged forward, swallowing the two friends in a miasma of black fur and red eyes.

Everything seemed to blur into a haze of blood, dust and sweat. The fighting was intense; claws and teeth _sliced_ far too fast for her to keep track of. She stood on the back of the collapsed Deathstalker, her hammer blurring and snapping out at the hungry maws gunning for her throat. Only her honed instincts and the strength granted by her Semblance kept her from being flayed alive. The sea of bodies parted before her, thrown away in droves by her sweeping hammer.

She could hear Sun grunting, fighting at her back. His breath came in sharp gasps and growls - and if she didn't know better, she could have sworn he was one of the Grimm himself. His staff lashed out in wide, sweeping blows, and though its wielder lacked the same _power_ she did, his movements were faster, more precise. Grimm were swatted aside like flies, their vitals pierced, their joints cracked.

And then -

\- the jaws nipping at their heels snapped shut, in a series of foreboding _clicks_. The sea of black fur parted... and _something_ waded through the wall of bodies, something _huge_ and _lumbering_ , with steps that shook the earth and breath that smelled like rotting meat. Her heart skipped a beat, and she shivered, as the wall of monsters parted before it, like wheat before a scythe.

The _Alpha_.

It stood head and shoulders above its peers, and on all fours, was _twice_ as tall as she was, even as she stood atop the fallen Deathstalker. Its _growl,_ like rolling gravel _,_ shook the air and made her heart skip a beat – and its massive paws carved chunks out of the loose gravel with each of its steps. Thick, bony plates covered the its limbs; but unlike the others of its kind, _these_ were jagged, protruding from the beast's fur like strips of barbed wire.

The beast stalked forward, its steps shaking the earth. Nora's hands had long since gone numb, and she felt Manghild slipping between her blood-drenched fingers; Sun's panting filled her ears, a panting echoed by the terrified beating of her heart. A cold, numb feeling settled in her gut as it approached, its limbs rippling with muscle and drenched in fresh blood.

Its glowing red eyes lingered on her... and it ran a tongue across its teeth.

Then, it _moved_.

For such a large creature, it was incredibly fast – or maybe that was just fear and adrenaline playing tricks on her fraying sanity. Whatever the case, the Grimm surged towards her in an _avalanche_ of black fur and gleaming teeth, _too fast_ and too _powerful_ for her to stop.

But she couldn't move. The Deathstalker beneath her feet was an island in the sea of Grimm; a misstep would mean her death. And if she stepped aside, if she gave ground – Sun would be killed instead, his head torn from his shoulders by the vicious teeth of the monstrous Grimm.

Nora's torn shirt billowed in the breeze... but she forced herself to stand tall. Her hands, bloodied and scraped raw, tightened around her hammer... but her grip did not falter. Blood, dripping from a dozen cuts, pooled at her feet... but she did not step aside.

She held her ground, and a smile graced her lips, in spite of the cold dread settling in her heart. She would die... but the faunus behind her would have a chance to escape. He had saved Ren; it was the least she could do.

Her chapped lips parted, the beginnings of a defiant _roar_ burning in her chest–

\- the Grimm opened its jaws wide, sneering, its teeth _gleaming like daggers_ -

\- someone shouted, and arms wrapped around her, dragging her to the ground -

\- something _sharp_ whipped past her shoulder, something made of _steel_ , _twisted steel, glowing like a falling star_ -

\- and the Alpha, its glistening fangs _inches_ from her throat, was consumed in a flash of rainbow-colored light.

Nora's vision faded to black.

* * *

Ruby was _never_ good with people.

The nuances of social interaction were never her strong suit. People always said one thing and meant another. A single word could have a dozen different meanings, and Ruby, as smart as she was, just couldn't speak the same language other people did.

She preferred simple things. Simple things, like cookies... and like her Bolt-Action Variant Sniper-Scythe, affectionately dubbed _Crescent Rose_.

The little parts moved in ways that she could _understand_. Each spring, each cylinder, each slide _moved_ and _clicked_ and _whirred_ beneath her fingertips like strings on a guitar. Each piece was a part of the whole, built to serve a purpose that was _clear_ and _defined_ and _awesome._ And it was built by her own hands, no less.

In every sense of the word, _Crescent Rose_ was her baby... and despite only being fifteen years old, she could appreciate how easy it was for mothers to communicate with their children.

Talking took effort; shooting, not so much.

So while Blake and Yang looked after Weiss – inspecting her injuries, and doing what they could to buy her time - Ruby did what she did best. Even while she was concussed, even while her speech was slurred and stilted, the little reaper's aim was _immaculate_. She sat in the center of the ring of blades, the fingers on her good hand caressing _Crescent Rose_ 's grip. Her silver eyes peered down the infrared scope, sighted on the glowing red dots -

 _-Crack!-_

\- and gleamed with morbid satisfaction as another slobbering maw _popped_ beneath the onslaught of her rifle and its dust-enhanced ammunition.

" _Reload!_ "

Beside her, Pyrrha shifted, fumbling with her spare magazine. There was a brief pause, and then a satisfying _clack_ as she popped a fresh mag into into _Crescent Rose_ 's receiver. Grinning, Ruby leaned her eye back to the scope, and sighted in another target.

Normally, she wouldn't let _anyone_ touch her baby, but she couldn't really reload with a mangled shoulder. The pain didn't bother her much – she'd long since gotten used to it – but the _inconvenience_ was annoying. There were Grimm to shoot, she had teammates to save, and trying to fill a spring-loaded magazine with one hand was nearly impossible.

 _Crack!_ A Beowolf dropped, its jaw blown to pieces – and it staggered back to its feet. Ruby grimaced - perhaps her aim wasn't _quite_ as perfect as she'd thought.

Pyrrha couldn't fight, and Ruby couldn't reload... so, in the interest of their mutual survival, the girls had worked out a _very_ efficient system. Pyrrha dug through Ruby's purse for spare ammunition – because _Yang said that guys aren't supposed to go through girl's purses_ , and _where else would you keep spare ammunition?_ \- and palmed any rounds she found into whatever magazine the little reaper wasn't already using.

In the end, Ruby got to spend more time behind the trigger, so she supposed she couldn't complain.

 _Crack!_ A lone Beowolf's face buckled inwards, its mask pierced right between the eye-holes in a corona of read dust. Rose petals danced on the breeze, bursting from the back of the monster's head like candy from a piñata.

Rose petals danced on the breeze, and the sight had Ruby grinning from ear to ear. Because behind that Beowolf, in the void where it once stood, Ruby caught a flash of color cresting the hill: _Green and gold._ And she wasn't the only one to see it; Pyrrha _jerked_ , like she'd been struck by lightning.

" _Ren!_ " she croaked, struggling to stand – and failing miserably, collapsing to her knees.

"Cover him!" interrupted Blake, hastily drawing _Gambol Shroud_. Her amber eyes lingered on the hill – and on their friend, his limb body carried forward by Sun's clones.

Ruby returned her eyes to the scope... and paused. The barrel of _Crescent Rose_ darted back and forth – and she adjusted the scope, to make sure she was seeing things right.

"He's... clear," She said, furrowing her brow. "But he's... by himself..."

Something shuffled next to her – and suddenly, Blake and Yang were there, in a flash of yellow and black. Ruby blinked, trying to clear her vision – perhaps the concussion had affected more than her speech. The little reaper opened her mouth to say something, to ask some inane question, but it died before it left her tongue.

Yang rested a hand on her shoulder, and peered down the barrel of her little sister's rifle.

"What about Nora... what about Sun?" Blake asked, her voice strangely quiet. Yang's eyes flickered to her partner, some unknown emotion in her gaze – and then she shifted her attention to the hill.

Ruby quickly adjusted her scope – adjusting the focus, and the depth it offered, with a casual flick of her wrist. It was a familiar action, one born of practice, to the point that she never had to second-guess her measurements; even in the blackness of the night, even concussed, her spatial awareness was on point.

When she returned her cheek to the stock, and trained her silver down the scope of Crescent Rose, she didn't know what to expect. Her gaze darted back and forth, from Ren – his limp form being carried forward by Sun's clones, still hundreds of yards away – to the scattered fires that lit his path like torches. Eventually, her gaze settled on the top of a mountain of debris...and what she saw sent an icy chill gliding down her spine.

"Oh, _no_ ," she whispered.

She'd observed the hill through her scope, before – but she hadn't been able to see _over_ it. After all, she'd been focused on the more immediate threat: straggling Grimm that were breaking away from the horde, that were making their way towards her teammates.

And when she'd first glimpsed at the hill, through her infrared scope, and seen the _waves of red_ and orange rising beyond its cusp – she'd thought they were caused by ambient heat, radiating from the ashes of the collapsed tower and the small fires that flickered in the distance. But, as her vision sharpened, as she peered farther into the distance, she discovered something that made her heart sink: the red waves were _moving._

It wasn't a sea of flame and ash she was looking at, but a sea of _Grimm_ , stretching as far as the eye could see – and distantly, within the teeming mass of black fur, dots, and rose petals... she saw two distinctly human shapes – one of which held a massive hammer - illuminated in hues of orange, blue, purple and green, standing back to back.

 _Surrounded_.

For the first time, she had plenty of targets, and the sight left her feeling hollow. The glee she'd once felt at seeing so many targets was replaced by unease, and a creeping terror that gripper her heart like a vise. _Crescent Rose_ began shaking in her hand – and her scope _twitched_ left and right. She fought to steady the rifle, to take a deep breath – but her heart was hammering away in her chest, and she couldn't breathe.

" _Too many_ ," she said, in a hushed whisper.

The words left her lips in a whisper – but in the tense silence of the cage, they might as well have been a scream. She heard several quick intakes of breath – but she ignored them, and returned her eye to the scope.

And as she watched her friends – watched them fighting desperately, batting Grimm aside and taking wounds in equal measure – she knew they were going to die. No matter how well she placed her shots, she wouldn't be able to save them.

Then, they disappeared beneath the rising tide of Grimm.

"I can't see them anymore."

Her heart thumped loudly in her chest. She stared, everything numb, into the scope – and watched, as the shifting mass of heat blurred and writhed, taking on a reddish hue.

 _Red like roses._

 _Crack!_

A round ripped from Crescent Rose's barrel, corkscrewing through the air in a corona of red dust. A head rolled, and rose petals filled the air - but that head was one of many, a grain of sand among a desert of Grimm.. Ruby's finger descended on the trigger a second time, then a third, then a _fourth,_ and then a _fifth,_ and the rifle in her hands jerked with each pull of the trigger.

 _Crack!_

Blake stiffened, bringing a hand to her chest.

 _Crack!_

Yang's grip on her shoulder tightened.

 _Crack!_

And _Pyrrha_... she couldn't bear to look.

 _Crack!_

Four heads burst into clouds of rose petals... and _four more_ stepped up to take their place.

"Reload," hissed Ruby, pawing at the ground for a spare magazine. The little reaper only had the one arm, but she made due – her fingers sifted through the ash at her side, blindingly seeking out the magazine she _knew_ she'd dropped earlier.

"Ruby," stammered Pyrrha, "we're-"

"I said _reload_!" She snapped. Rage, ugly and hot, wormed its way into her heart; she felt like a coiled spring, ready to burst at any moment. Pulling her eyes from the scope wasn't an option; if she looked away, she would _never_ forgive herself. Her friends were out there, and she needed to _do_ something, because she was _team leader_ , and _everyone_ was looking to her for answers, and, _and_ –

"We're _out."_

The words struck Ruby like a freight train.

She blinked, and threw herself away from the scope. Her silver eyes gleamed brightly as she scoured her surroundings, searching for the telltale hint of brass, searching for the gentle glow of Dust. The cloak around her shoulders suddenly felt stifling, like it was trying to choke her – and she barely resisted the impulse to rip it off and throw it away.

"Ruby," someone whispered. She could feel their eyes on her – the eyes of her sister, her friend, and her teammate - and she quickened her pace, sifting her fingers through the ash. Maybe there was _something_ there she'd missed, there had to be _something_ , a spare _round,_ or, or _-_

" _Fuck!_ " Yang shouted, tearing at her golden locks. Ruby jerked, scrambling back, as the blonde bruiser _surged_ to her feet; beside her, Pyrrha didn't even flinch.

"Where's that _asshole_ when you need him? He shows up in the nick of time like one of those douche-bags in _Jaune's_ _comic collection_ , and then he freaking _leaves_." Her lilac eyes bled to crimson, and in a sudden fury, she lashed out at one of the greatswords that protected them from the Grimm outside.

"If I _ever_ see that _creep_ again," she spat, "I'm gonna..."

Her voice died in her throat, and for a heartbeat, Ruby wondered why.

Then, her eyes flickered shut, and she was floating in a sea of _power_.

It ebbed and flowed around her, clinging to her skin in little beads, like ice-cold water; and at the same time, it _shocked_ her, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. She felt like she'd been punched in the chest and hugged at the same time, by a live _power cable_... and it made her feel warm, safe, _protected –_ like her mother's singing and uncle's lopsided grin, all rolled into one.

"...I'm gonna high-five the _shit_ out of him," Yang finished, her voice filled with awe.

Ruby opened her eyes, followed her sister's gaze... and sucked in a quick breath.  
 _  
Beacon's tower was lit once more._

...Well, maybe not. She _knew_ it was just her addled mind playing tricks on her. The tower was, for the most part, beneath her – smashed, crushed, ground to powder. The little reaper's mind struggled to comprehend exactly what she was seeing.

Just as shadow cannot exist without light, light cannot exist without shadow. And in the heart of the brilliant light that crested the remains Beacon's tower, the light that _pulsed_ like a beating heart, she saw a silhouette. The silhouette of a man, wearing torn armor – with a bow in his hands, a bow as black as pitch.

He whispered something... and her experienced eyes, honed from years of long-range combat raining, traced his lips.

" _ **...Caladbolg**_ _._ "

It was an unfamiliar word, an _alien_ word, but something about it – the _weight_ of it – was a physical thing, a presence within her mind that she just couldn't let go, a pressure that built behind her silver eyes and set her head pounding like a war drum. Crescent Rose clattered to the earth, and she brought a hand to her head, shutting her eyes and gritting her teeth, trying desperately to block out the _pain_ of it.

And through the haze that had befallen her thoughts, through the static that washed over her mind, through the _throbbing_ between her ears... she caught a glimpse of something.

 _A hill. A hill of swords._

Ruby was so absorbed in her thoughts, in the vision of the hill, that she didn't even notice when the bowman loosed his arrow into the night.

She was so overcome by the taste of steel, the sight of it glinting in the setting sun, that she didn't notice – didn't notice, as the arrow soared into the distance like a comet, veiled by a corona of white light.

But the little reaper _did_ notice when the arrow struck its target... it would have been impossible for her _not_ to.

Because, when it did... the world _shook_.

* * *

 **[Author's Note - Fell The Tempest]**

 **[Update]:** Hello, readers! It's been a little while longer than usual since my first update. I just wanted to let you all know that I'm not dead. I'm trying to take a little longer with each chapter to ensure that the quality stays up to par.

 **[Challenges]:** This story was originally intended as a one-shot, and the way it's headed has resulted in its own set of challenges.

This is the first story I've written that's not in first-person perspective; it has quite a few characters, each with their own goals, motivations and personalities, and I want to make sure that each character I'm portraying is true to their canon alternative. This is made harder in the cases of Ren and Sun, who aren't really fleshed out in canon yet.

It's also been a challenge to bounce between these perspectives while maintaining a good pace to the story; transitioning is an art form in and of itself and I've never really had to do it before. I'm hoping that the story flows well and that you all have as much fun reading it as I did writing it! _Cliff hangers for days, baby._

 **[Thank You]:** I want to give a huge shout-out to **Sociopathic-Antichrist** and **Knightoblivion** for their support.

I've known **Sociopathic-Antichrist** for about six months now - he started reviewing another story of mine, _Fate: Hard Knocks_ , and I really valued his insight. We ended up chatting, and eventually, we started sound boarding for one another, pitching ideas for stories and evaluating them. Since the very beginning of Remnant, he's provided a very helpful second set of eyes to make sure my grammar's on point. The last thing I want to do is submit a story that looks like I spilled a can of alphabet soup on a copy of _My Immortal,_ and he has saved me from this fate. _Praise be to the Avatar of Auto-Correct!_

 **Knightoblivion** is a reviewer who consistently offered amazing advice for story improvement, and at my request, agreed to beta-read for me. This dude's got talent, and he knows how to tweak a passage _just so_ and turn something fun into something _epic_. I've known him for a week, and by this point he's got me convinced that he wears steel-toed boots when he's sitting down at his computer, because this dude kicks _so much_ _ass_.

 **[Music]:** I made a short playlist on my profile of music that inspires me to write. It's mostly punk rock, featuring Billy Talent, Rise Against and Sum 41. If you're interested, feel free to check it out. More songs will be added as the story progresses.

 **[Review]:** As always, rate and review! Let me know what you think of the story.


	5. Chapter 5: The Affairs of Mortal Men

**[Chapter Five: The Affairs of Mortal Men.]** _  
_  
Sun felt it before he saw it.

The monkey faunus had always been in touch with his natural instincts. His eyesight, his hearing, and his sense of touch were greater than those of most humans; together, they gave him a more acute awareness of his surroundings. More than that, he - and others like him, those who were more in touch with their Faunus side - possessed an almost tacit connection with the world around them. Those of potent blood were said to be able to predict changes in the weather, and to 'sense' natural disasters minutes before they occurred.

Perhaps that was why the hairs of his neck stood on end, and the blood chilled his veins. Or, perhaps it was the wave of power that washed over him, driving the breath from his lungs and stampeding through his heart. Maybe it was the way the air crackled with power, the way the earth seemed to tremble in anticipation – and the way the lesser Grimm turned their heads, as one, their jaws shutting with an ominous _clack_ , looking in the direction of the tower.

Either way, the cause didn't matter. Because, in that moment, Sun became aware of the truth.

Something was coming. Something big.

He heard a shriek, like nails on a chalkboard and a thousand screaming birds. It pierced his ears, jarring him from the haze of battle, distracting him from the sea of snapping maws that frothed at his feet. He flinched, his sky-blue eyes snapping shut -

\- and when he opened them, he thought he was going blind.

Light seared at his eyes, as the meteorite descended. It was glowing too brightly, far too brightly for his sensitive eyes to handle - and it was moving far too quickly for him to track. Like a bolt of lightning, it slashed through the night sky, parting the stars and warping space, scalding the air and filling the breeze with the smell of hot steel -

\- and it was heading _right for him._

Sun didn't want to be standing still when it arrived.

" _Nora!_ "

The shout ripped from his lungs with a mind of its own, and before he could consider his actions, he was already moving. His staff dropped from his grip, clattering to the ground below. His hands, reaching blindingly, found purchase on Nora's back. His legs, like coiled springs, snapped straight - and he _tore_ Nora from the Deathstalker's back, throwing himself and his passenger head-over-heels above the sea of waiting sea of Grimm. The Alpha's presence went entirely unnoticed in the fog of adrenaline that clouded his mind.

The girl in his arms gasped – and she seemed more confused by his actions than anything else. Her cerulean eyes met his – and then drifted to the empty space behind him, space that was suddenly filled by an unearthly glow.

Sun glanced over his shoulder, following Nora's gaze – and as he did, time seemed to slow. The two of them hung in the air, and felt – just for a moment – like the world was holding its breath alongside him.

The wind howled, so loud that it obscured the fierce beating of his heart and drowned out the snarls of the Grimm horde. Lightning crackled, closer and closer – and Sun could feel its passage like that of an oncoming train. His golden eyes slipped shut. He wrapped a hand around Nora's shoulders, pulling her tightly to his chest -

-and the _arrow_ sank home, burying itself deep into the Alpha's eye with a sickening _squelch_.

Sun witnessed, _felt_ , Armageddon.

The Alpha was killed instantly. Even a normal arrow, delivered in such a fashion, would have provided a killing blow – but this was no ordinary arrow. As it pierced the Grimm's skull, skin and bone alike warped and twisted in waves from the point of impact. Space itself arrow distorted, _twisted_ , crushing and stretching the monster's lifeless body until sinew tore, fur ignited, bones popped and organs burst. Blood fountained from hunk of fur and flesh that used to be the Alpha, and it was immediately _vaporized_ as soon as it hit the open air.

And then -

\- light, furious and blinding, exploded from the tip of the arrow... and the world _shook_ , as though God himself had descended from the heavens and struck down with an iron fist.

Time resumed its normal flow.

Sun screamed, a primal sound that ripped from his throat and seared the air around him – that is, until his ears popped, and he couldn't hear his own voice. Blinding light filled his vision, staining everything white and black and red. Scorching heat washed over his face, singeing his brows and scorching the air in his lungs... and he tumbled senselessly, head over heels, thrown like a ragdoll by the force of the explosion.

A second passed, then two... and he struck the earth, slamming hard into a rolling hill of jagged gravel.  
 _  
_Everything ached. He ached in places he didn't know he _had_. None of his limbs responded to his commands – instead, they protested, sending waves of pain down his spine that made him want to vomit. But he fought against that impulse, swallowing the bile that bubbled in his throat, gasping in the burning air; if he was going to die, he was going to do it with _dignity_ , dammit.

Then, he opened his eyes... and he saw it.

The dragon.

It blocked out the stars, like a thundercloud moving overhead, but much, much faster. Fire and smoke trailed from its nostrils, and its throat glowed white with heat. And as the beast soared overhead, making a beeline for the tower, Sun realized something important.

If he was conscious, he wasn't dead. _.._ Not yet, anyway.

By sheer force of will, Sun lifted his head – and in a heartbeat, discovered _why_ he was having so much trouble breathing. Where there should have been an open shirt and tanned skin rested a mane of orange hair – and he realized, with a start, that Nora was still in his arms. Her face was pale, streaked with blood and grime... and her breaths, slow and even, tickled his bare chest.

Sun breathed a quiet sigh of relief... and satisfaction. _'Least I did something right tonight,'_ he mused, his cracked lips twitching into a smile.

Then, on impulse, his eyes drifted from the woman in his arms to the warzone at her back. He searched for the army of Grimm, for the familiar landmarks he'd been fighting next to – the rolling hills of debris, jutting steel, and fallen soldiers.

He forgot to breathe.  
 _  
_Everything – the corpses of man and machine, the Grimm, the steel and gravel – _all of it_ \- had been reduced to a smoldering wasteland. The earth was scoured, _wiped clean_ , like in those science-fiction movies that Neptune fawned over. Steel had melted into slag; sand had been superheated into waves of glass that jutted from the earth like rock formations, distending outwards from the arrow's point of impact. The earth was scored with a deep trench, filled with lava and consumed by flames, that stretched nearly a mile into the distance. Even at such a great distance from the blast,the potent smell singed Sun's nostrils – the potent aroma of sulfur, ash, and... _nothing else_.

Nothing remained of the Alpha, or of the horde of Grimm at its heels. _Nothing._ It was like they'd been erased from the earth, torn apart at a molecular level. Not even the tell-tale smell of _blood_ remained.

Sun stared at the destruction, and his head swam. He blinked – and suddenly, the stars were filling his vision.

He took a moment to realize just how beautiful the night sky really was. It reminded him of his home in Vacuo... of lazy summer nights spent by the beach, in the company of friends. Scary stories, warmth and laughter. Friends held close, and friends long gone.

 _'Well... if I'm gonna go, there are worse ways to do it,'_ he mused. His thoughts turned to one friend in particular, the one whose friendship he cherished most – and he felt a wry grin crease his lips. ' _Dying with a woman in my arms. You'd approve, wouldn't you?'_

The stars gleamed overhead. Fires, warm and inviting, crackled in the distance – and their gentle heat drove away the night chill. The sand beneath him was... warm. Soft. Familiar.

In the distance, he could hear the ocean. The gentle thunder of the tide, as it struck the sandy dunes... the cries of the gulls, soaring overhead...

Gentle laughter filled the air – and then it faded away.

* * *

 _C_ _aladbolg_ **.**

It was an 'anti-army' Noble Phantasm, with the defining property of _terrain destruction._ Its original owner, Fergus Mac Roich, was said to have used it to cleanly level three mountains in a single swing. Within the blade of twisted steel and gleaming filigree rested enough power to wipe out entire forests, it was a blade made to sunder, and in the hands of a skilled combatant, that power could be used to level entire armies.

But when Shirou traced _Caladbolg_ as an arrow, the legendary blade gained a second property: _spatial distortion._

Much like the semblance of one Ruby Rose, the arrow surrounded itself in a bubble of warped space, effectively removing itself from the physical plane and shooting towards its target at speeds unhindered by minor inconveniences such as gravity and wind resistance. Even _light itself_ bent around the arrow, splitting and refracting endlessly - as though it were passing through the lens of a kaleidoscope. To the casual observer, this spacial distortion would manifest as an unearthly white glow, a glow that surrounded the arrow and trailed in its wake like a comet's tail.

This artificial property gave the arrow the ability to _sidestep_ conventional defenses, such as shields of steel or spirit. More than that, it allowed Shirou to direct the cataclysm in a manner of his choosing.

It was a matter of simple physics. Energy will always travel along the path of least resistance; by increasing the density of space around the arrow, the trajectory of the ensuing explosion could be altered, and directed, much like a bullet in the barrel of a gun.

When the arrow struck the Alpha Grimm, that bubble of space surrounding the arrow _popped;_ the force contained within it _exploded_ outwards, in a cone of rolling thunder that swept over the battlefield and ripped through the army of Grimm like a dynamite through tissue paper, like a scythe through grass... while leaving Beacon's students relatively untouched.

Such was the skill, the _power_ , of Counter Guardian Shirou Emiya.

But all power comes with a price... and the price he paid was not one he expected.

 _Prana exhaustion._

It started as a wave of bone-deep fatigue, continued with a spasm in his heartbeat, and ended in a flash of pain that blossomed behind his eyelids. Static flashed across his vision, and his head swam. He listed sideways, resting a hand against the lip of the tower – and took in a shuddering breath.

Surprise, and a note of confusion, welled within his breast. Whenever he was summoned to the mortal plane, it had been done at the behest of Alaya... and for all her faults, she'd never sent him into battle unprepared. His considerable reserves were bolstered further by her power, which kept him in fighting shape, allowing him to make liberal use of his considerable array of Noble Phantasms.

What had changed? He forced his stuttering brain into gear, shunting aside the static that clung to his perception. The girl, Weiss, in the pale blue dress – _she'd_ been the one to summon him, and not Alaya. Perhaps a formal servant contract had yet to be established, or the summoning was incomplete? It was a possibility, given the state in which he'd found her. But if she had not summoned him, and had not provided him with prana – what, then, was sustaining him? Had his connection with Alaya been... damaged, somehow?

Shirou closed his eyes. Such a question _demanded_ answers. Forcing his breathing to slow, he extended his magical senses inwards - in a frenzied search for the bond between himself and his patron.

What he found sent a chill down his spine.

 _Nothing._

There was no sign the covenant he'd made, no lingering strands of magic woven into his being that empowered and enslaved him in equal measure. And yet... there was no trace of a summoning contract, the telltale trickle of power that would sustain him in the mortal world.

But he wasn't fading from existence – far from it. Instead, his body was running under its own power. It was producing its _own_ prana. Whatever Weiss had done, whatever magic she'd attempted, whatever mistake had been made in the process, the result was nothing short of impossible:

He was _alive_. Not summoned, per se, but _incarnated_ , given flesh and blood to call his own.

That knowledge should have made him feel... something. Happiness, perhaps, at being freed from a tortured existence; despair, for his inability to achieve his ideal; closure, for seeing his journey to its end, even if the end was not what he desired.

But he didn't have time to contemplate his new-found mortality... not with the dragon bearing down on him, gliding towards him on tattered wings, its eyes and maw equally hungry. Panic, unease, made his heartbeat tremble – and he _crushed_ that panic beneath a will of steel. Fear had no place in war.

Shirou scowled, his sunset eyes fixated on the dragon. It had been drawn by his use of _Caladbolg_ , as he'd anticipated; the creatures moved in a coordinated manner, suggesting that they shared some sort of collective intelligence... like a hive-mind, or a pack mentality. By killing so many of the Grimm in an obvious display of power, he'd diverted the dragon's attention away from the fleeing bullheads... and towards the man who killed its brethren.

That would have been the smart decision – if he'd had enough prana to trace a second _Caladbolg_. At that moment, his new body simply didn't have the reserves to let him trace Noble Phantasms without limit. Though the Spiral Sword would ensure his victory, tracing it a second time would kill him as surely as a knife through the heart, and the dragon wasn't going to patiently wait for him to recover.

He glanced down, his sunset eyes lingering on the bow in his hands... and he chuckled.

Even if Shirou couldn't appreciate his new existence, he could certainly appreciate the _irony_ of it. He was finally _free_ of the goddess' clutches, after an _eternity_ of service, returned to the land of the living... only to be thrown into a situation that would likely cost him his life, without the power needed to save himself or the people he'd sworn to protect.

 _'A fitting end for a hypocrite... I've really outdone myself, haven't I?'_

Even though he was low on prana, he still had enough to put up a decent fight.. and for all his indecision, fighting was the only real choice.

He doubted the dragon would simply let him walk away, not after he slaughtered hundreds of its kin in a single stroke. No. Likely, it would chase him to the ends of the earth to satisfy its hunger – and it would only be a matter of time until he was caught. And if the Grimm shared some sort of hive-mind, as he suspected they did... when they next met, the dragon would not be alone.

That was to say nothing of the military forces overhead. They had started fleeing in the wake of the oncoming horde, but they would doubtless return, and they would want answers. If he turned his back on the children and fled, despite already showing that he had the power to take down the Grimm invaders... naturally, they would jump to wild and inaccurate conclusions. Instead of allying with him, they would likely join in the hunt.

And if he left, those children – their deaths - would be on his conscience, as cold and battered as it was. Shirou was no stranger to death; each blade within the archives of Unlimited Blade Works was a testament to a broken promise, a failure, a tragedy he _should_ have prevented, yet was unable to.

But something about those children – those children, with their wide eyes and slack-jawed expressions, who looked up at him like he was some sort of god – brought about old, buried emotions, none of which were familiar anymore. Maybe it was because they were _real._ Unique, among the millions of faces he'd seen, for the sheer fact that they were _alive_ and so was _he_.

Even if that admission bled hypocrisy, the fact remained that it was true.

Maybe.

Regardless of his reasoning, flight was not an option. No. Regardless of the outcome, he would fight. He would fight as he always had: with a purpose. But what _was_ that purpose? Was he fighting because he _had_ to? Because it would be easier to eke out a meaningful existence in a world that wasn't gunning for his throat?

Or, perhaps... was he fighting for something more?

The dragon loomed closer - and the semantics, the warring forces within his mind, were consumed by the sudden rush of combat.

Shirou forced himself up on shaking legs, ignoring the pangs of lingering discomfort. Placing one foot on the lip of the tower, he took a slow breath. His tattered shroud whipped around his shoulders, buffeted by the wind of the dragon's approach. Steadying his bow, he drew it back – and knocked the half-traced arrows in his grip.

 _Fwip! Fwip! Fwip!_

One after another, the black-shafted arrows zipped through the air, flitting about on the breeze like angry hornets. As though guided by invisible hands, they skirted around the dragon's snapping maw, glided along the wind – and they struck, exploding as they impacted the monster's plated hide. For a moment, smoke, fire and lightning obscured the beast's silhouette.

Shirou let out a shaky breath as the dragon emerged from the smoke, its crimson eyes gleaming.

Those arrows, each powerful enough to pierce a tank's armored shell, hadn't even managed to draw blood. They hadn't so much as _scratched_ it. And while Shirou had stronger weapons in his arsenal... he wasn't really in a position to use them.

Shirou's throat was suddenly very, very dry.

Fire spewed from the beast's mouth, and Shirou threw himself sideways, flames licking at his heels. The ambient heat alone would have scalded him – but his reinforced armor absorbed much of it, dispersing it as it would gunfire.

Biting back a curse, Shirou spun in mid-air, drawing back his bow – and fired a second volley of arrows. They screeched through the night sky like fireworks, careening towards the dragon's flank as it passed.

 _Fwip! Fwip! Fwip!_

Explosions peppered the beast's unarmored joints – and the Counter Guardian's lips split into a triumphant smirk as he heard a massive _crack._ A portion of the scaled behemoth's bone plating, at the junction where its wings met its back, was fractured – decorated in a spider's web of cracks.

And within those cracks, Shirou saw the faintest hint of seeping scarlet. Perhaps he wouldn't need more than simple arrows after all.

But he didn't have time to celebrate; no sooner had his feet touched down on the gravel below than the dragon was upon him. It wound around the school's remains like a snake, banking on a dime. Whatever damage his arrows had done had been entirely superficial, not actually enough to _hurt_ the damned thing. It looked even _angrier_ than it did before, if such a thing were possible.

And the rage burning in its eyes was only matched by the heat of the plasma burning in its throat.

Shirou was already moving. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, the Counter Guardian strafed sideways, narrowly avoiding a stream of hot plasma. Concrete _popped_ , and the air grew stiflingly hot, singeing his lungs - but he didn't falter. Instead, he sprinted forward towards a piece of shattered masonry and leaped over it, ducking his head - just as a cone of fire passed through the space he once was, turning steel to slag in its wake.

If he'd been a millisecond slower, he'd have died. And it wasn't for his own lack of awareness; his analytical mind, as sharp as any of the blades he conjured, had predicted the attack. He'd seen it, _read_ it, in the movements of the dragon's body, in the trembling of its limbs, in the contraction of the glands at its throat, in the way it reared back its head before letting loose its inner flame.

He'd predicted the attack, and yet he'd barely dodged it. That could only mean one thing.

He was _slowing down_.

The human body wasn't meant to handle the rigors of combat for long periods of time - and despite his considerable prana reserves, his body was _definitely_ human, as it insisted on reminding him. Muscles he didn't even know he _had_ ached, his shoulder burned, and with the added burden of prana exhaustion, he felt like he was going to keel over at any moment. Reinforcement bought him time – but how much longer would it last?

Worse still, their fight had evolved into a war of attrition – and that realization set his teeth on edge. So long as he avoided the dragon's flame, he could continue to whittle it down, maybe even beat it – but that would take time, a precious commodity that he couldn't afford to spare. Which would give first, the dragon's armor or his stamina?

The dragon soared overhead, going back for another pass – and Shirou bit back a curse. Leaping out from his hiding place, he leaped to the side, kicking off of the ruins. A third stream of blistering flame coursed over his shoulder, and his senses were snared by searing agony – but that didn't stay his hand.

A single arrow, reinforced to the breaking point, was knocked between his fingers. Sighting the cracked plate on the dragon's hide, he let fly.

 _Fwip!_

The fletching snapped into the cold night wind. It augered towards the dragon's exposed joint – and erupted in a flash of light. The dragon let loose a pained roar, and listed sideways, beating its over-sized wings in a frantic effort to keep airborne.

The bony plate that once covered the dragon's wing had been pierced by his arrow... and so had the flesh beneath it, if the crimson dripping from the dragon's hide was any indication. Blood boiled from the wound, frothing like acid, and sprayed into the air in a viscous arc.

His lips twitched, into a faint smirk -

\- and then, a flicker of movement caught his attention.

The drops of thick, greasy dragon's blood, dripping to the earth, _spasmed_ and _writhed_. There was a burst of energy... dark energy, an _absence_ of prana, a void that drank greedily at its surroundings. The sensation of it send a chill through Shirou's heart. And then –

\- his eyes widened, as the bloody rain congealed, taking _shape_.

Crimson droplets warped and distended, growing larger by the second. The liquid, viscous and greasy with an oil-like sheen, hardened into corded muscle... and a coat of black feathers sprouted to shield it from the elements. The half-formed beast, roughly the size of a large dog, twitched and stumbled, hobbling about like a half-formed clay sculpture, blood flowing over its limbs – and its razor-sharp beak cracked open with an heart-rending _shriek_.

Its eyes snapped open, pulsing with _hate_ -

\- and an unearthly screech pierced his ears, and a blur of dark feathers shot towards him, as swift and deadly as any bullet, its razor-sharp claws flashing for his torso. And in its shadow... he saw another. And another. And _anothe_ r. A mass of ebony masks, beady eyes and snapping beaks, writhing and twisting in the air like a cloud of angry hornets.

The cloud of newborn Grimm – one for each droplet of blood - surged forward towards the wounded Counter Guardian.

* * *

Blake took in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Her amber eyes drifted between the bodies of her friends, and she set to work.

Growing up on the streets, and then among the ranks of the White Fang, didn't allow for weakness. It wasn't until she was twelve years old that she'd had her Aura unlocked, and that meant injuries were a common occurrence. So, being such a quick study, one of the first skills she'd learned was first aid.

Even now, years later, those lessons stuck around... and Blake had never been so thankful for her rough upbringing.

The sounds of battle flowed around her, but she paid them no attention. Her hands moved in familiar motions - checking pulses, applying pressure, and wrapping wounds with torn pieces of cloth. That familiarity kept her grounded... and kept her focused.

She might not have been in fighting shape, but she could contribute in other ways.

She'd started by tearing her overcoat into strips, and had wound those around Weiss' chest and back, securing her arm to her torso with an improvised splint. She'd kept her gaze dutifully focused on the bandages, trying not to notice the distinct wetness to her friend's breathing, or the way her abdomen looked like a crushed _pop can_.

While Blake was working on Weiss' collarbone, a slow and arduous task, Ruby had drifted off to sleep – and the ravenette had used that opportunity to pop the little reaper's shoulder back into its socket, using the hard-packed earth for leverage. The grinding and crackling of her team leader's bones made her wince – but she grit her teeth and pushed through it, setting the joint with an audible _crack_. After all, the longer the arm was outside of the joint, the harder it would be to heal.

Blake, of all people, would know. Adam had made sure of it.

The ravenette shook her head, casting away the bitter memories as the wound in her side throbbed _._ She wasn't sure how long she'd be able to keep moving; if she stopped, if she fell, she might not be able to get back up.

So she sucked in the pain and continued down the line.

Ren came next. He'd been carried across the battlefield by two of Sun's clones – and had arrived looking like he'd just gone twelve rounds with a _Goliath_.

Blake's amber eyes traced her friend's wounds. His green tunic was in tatters, and his pants resembled bloody rags more than anything else. Most of his body was covered in second-degree burns. There was a bald patch on the side of his head, likely where he'd turned to avoid the explosion that had nearly killed him earlier. One of his ankles was badly twisted, and she moved to set it – only to pause.

She thought he was in bad shape – and then her trained eyes noticed something else: the slightly blue tint to his lips. Holding a hand to his throat, she went to take his pulse... and nearly jerked her hand away in surprise at how _cold_ he was to the touch.

Blake and Ren had never been particularly close – but that wasn't his fault. She had never been the most... socially outgoing person, and they were on different teams, with different responsibilities. But in spite of the distance between them, the two students shared a certain... camaraderie.

So when she realized that he was on _death's door_ – she was overcome by sudden panic. The broken ankle could wait. He was _bleeding out_.

She ripped open his shirt and inspected his torso for wounds. Not finding any, she rolled him onto his side. Her fingers slid over the fabric of his jacket – and sunk _knuckle-deep_ into a hole in his back. The puncture wasn't bleeding – but it frothed at the edges, with a sickly yellow liquid that clung to her fingers like sap.

 _Deathstalker venom._

Her fingers trembled, and she stared at the wound. Her composure threatened to crack. Her side panged in sympathy, ears flattened against her head, her heart throbbed with terror -

"How is he?"

\- and a voice startled her from her waking nightmare.

She turned to face the voice... and saw Pyrrha, her emerald eyes half-lidded and glazed with fatigue. The redhead was leaning back against the ring of swords, with Ruby's head on her lap, one hand through the little reaper's hair.

Blake wasn't sure how the amazon was awake, let alone talking, but she couldn't bring herself to respond. She didn't know what to say – what was she supposed to say in a time like this? The air in the ring of blades grew stifling, and she looked away, unable to meet the redhead's worried gaze.

"That bad, huh?" Pyrrha croaked. Blake stiffened – and then, relaxed, shaking her head.

"He'll be okay. You'll all be okay. Just... rest. Help will be here soon."

If Pyrrha noticed the tremor in her voice, she didn't say anything about it. Blake kept her posture relaxed, and returned her attention to Ren. She started dressing his wounds, splinting his leg – for what little good it would do him, not that Pyrrha would be able to tell – and pretended not to feel the eyes hovering on her back.

There was a moment of silence - and then it was gone.

"You're a terrible liar, Blake."

The ravenette wrapped her arms around her chest – and let out a shuddering breath, one she didn't know she was holding. Anger surged in her breast – anger at Ren, for getting injured... anger at Pyrrha, for calling her out... anger at _everything_. But mostly, her anger was directed at herself – and the tears that threatened to fall.

Memories of her time in the White Fang flashed behind her closed eyelids. Memories of shadow, smoke, and sanguine. Memories of _Wilt_ , gleaming as it sliced through flesh and bone alike with equal ease – and of the smell of gunpowder, as _Gambol Shroud_ rattled in her grip, ripping through an Altesian soldier.

Memories of how his helmet had fallen – and memories of the boy she'd glimpsed beneath it, a boy who had been her age. Memories of many sleepless nights, poor decisions, and the monster who promised he could take her pain away... and of the lies she told herself – the lies that made it all okay.

Memories of her defection, and the river of blood that had flowed in its wake.

"Yeah. I guess I am." It was as close to a confession as she'd ever given.

Pyrrha's green eyes, ringed with fatigue, met her own - and Blake quickly glanced away, shame burning in her breast. Those eyes, tired and hurting, bored into her; she could feel them on her back, through the veil of her obsidian locks, even as she tried to distract herself. Her palms pressed into Ren's bandages, applying pressure to his wound, even as blood welled between her fingertips - and she swallowed, not trusting herself to speak another word.

Pyrrha didn't take the hint.

"Then... why?"

But she couldn't lie. Not anymore. She sighed, hands slipping from Ren's back. Sitting back on her haunches, her palms stained with her friend's life essence, she spoke.

"Because sometimes a lie is easier than the truth. You've lost so much today, and..."

... and there was nothing more to say. She'd stopped Ren's bleeding, but didn't have the expertise to treat him any further - and the venom was still doing its wicked work, tearing away at his heart and lungs. There was nothing more she could do for the teen; whether or not he survived was entirely out of her hands.

He was dead... he just didn't know it yet, and neither did Pyrrha. That's how she'd wanted to keep it. Even if for a moment, she'd wanted to spare her friend the pain; if that meant taking the burden on herself, if that meant lying and deceiving someone close to her, then...

"Blake," Pyrrha murmured, her head lolling to the side, "I... understand. I'm sure... Ren, he'd..."

Blake waited for a moment, expecting the amazon to say something more - but instead, only silence met her ears. A second passed, then two - and she risked raising her head. Her amber eyes flickered to Pyrrha's, observing the fallen amazon through the curtain of her midnight tresses - and she let out a slow breath.

Pyrrha's emerald orbs, blackened by fatigue and injury, red with unshed tears, had slipped shut - and the rhythm of her breathing had slowed. She'd slumped back against the wall of swords, her features obscured by her scarlet hair, torn loose from its usual chamber.

Sleep had taken the amazon in an instant.

And despite her mangled leg and battered body... despite her scuffed and bloodied armor... despite the bone-deep _fatigue_ that was visible in her every movement... Pyrrha still seemed _dignified_ , somehow, even in her slumber.

Blake grit her teeth, panic threatening to overwhelm her – and fixed her gaze on her bloody palms, forcing herself to focus. Pyrrha may have _looked_ terrible, but losing consciousness was a good thing; it would spare her from any further pain. And while breaking down had its appeal, while she wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball and cry, there was still more work to be done - more work that would distract her, divert her attention from the hell that surrounded her. Work that would ease the guilt that gnawed at her heartstrings, a guilt she couldn't afford.

After all, there was one person she still hadn't checked on.

Blake's gaze drifted to the side - and settled on her partner.

"Yang. How are you holding up?" She asked.

To her surprise, the blonde bruiser had stopped her pacing. She'd been walking back and forth, like an anxious mother hen, mumbling and cursing under her breath, not moments before; but in a sudden turn of events, she was pressed flat against the cage of swords, her toes edging through the cracks.

More worryingly - she was completely, utterly silent.

"Yang?"

No response.

Nervous energy filled Blake's belly, and despite herself, she took a step forward. Turning her back on her fallen teammates, instead peered through the bars, searching for whatever had Yang so distracted.

And what she saw sent a thrill of awe down her spine, once again removing her ability to speak.

She saw the stranger... and an entire _flock_ of Nevermores soaring towards him, a solid mass of black feathers and white masks that writhed and twisted in the air like a King Taijitu. But the stranger... he didn't look afraid. As the writhing mass of Grimm approached, as the bow in his hands _disappeared_ into motes of light, flitting away on the breeze – a strange expression crossed his regal features.

If anything, he looked _content_.

The stranger held up a hand, high above his head – the smell of ozone and rust flooded Blake's nostrils - and a dozen swords appeared in the air above him in a flash of light, as if born of the wind itself. With a mental nudge, they shifted, angling themselves up and away, their gleaming tips pointing towards the Grimm.

Then, he dropped his hand.

Like bullets fired from the barrel of a gun, the swords exploded into motion. In the blink of an eye, they flashed forward and impaled the opposing Grimm - and were swiftly replaced, as even more swords formed above the man's head, only to fire in the wake of their predecessors.

Blake could think of few words could describe it better than a literal _rain of steel._ Beneath the stranger's onslaught, masks cracked, bones snapped, blood sprayed - and the shrieks of dying demons rolled through the night like thunder.

Her amber eyes widened in disbelief. Was this the man's _Semblance?_ Her thoughts raced – and she realized that the stranger wasn't exaggerating when he'd spoken to her earlier.

 _'If I'd wanted to kill you, I would have.'_

The sudden chill creeping up her spine had nothing to do with blood loss.

But, as she watched – she realized that even his considerable power wasn't going to be enough to save his life.

At first, the wave of Grimm faltered beneath the storm of swords. The oversized ravens dropped like flies, as they mindlessly fed themselves into the blender of sharp metal and gold filigree... but as time passed, the tide of the battle began to shift. The Grimm were vast in number, and mindless in their pursuit of the stranger's blood. Slowly but surely, they advanced _,_ pushing back the wave of swords.

Then, the wave surged forward.

Blake brought a hand to her chest – and sucked in a breath. She wasn't the only one.

" _Move_ ," Yang whispered. She tensed, her grip going knuckle-white on the blade of a greatsword. Blood dripped between her fingers, but she didn't seem to notice. "Dammit, _move_. Come on, come on, _come on._ "

For a heartbeat, the stranger was consumed in a tornado of black feathers and snapping beaks; for a heartbeat, it seemed that Yang's prayers had gone unanswered.

Blake couldn't see him, but, then, she didn't need to.

She knew what to expect. She could imagine it well enough: the sound of tearing fabric, tearing flesh. A pained grunt, and a wet gasp. The taste of blood on the breeze _– a_ _sickly sweet_ , metallic aroma, tickling her sensitive nose and lingering in the air for days. The crunch of bone, and the nausea that followed, creeping into her belly and giving her the urge to vomit.

" **Trace, On.** "

Now _that_ was a sound she didn't expect.

Blake raised her head, her ears twitching, staring into the cloud Grimm, her eyes widening in shock - and something metallic glinted from within the haze of darkness.

Then, there was a bright flash – and the flock was blown away, in a whirling arc of wind and steel.

The stranger was alive - and his empty hands filled with a pair of ornate swords.

She only caught a glimpse of the blades, between the shadows of the circling Grimm – but the sight of them ingrained itself into her mind. The color scheme – black and white – reminded her faintly of _Gambol Shroud,_ but these weapons held a weight to them. If she didn't know any better, she could swear that they had an aura of their own.

The stranger crouched, raising his swords – and the flocked surged forward once again. Dozens of Nevermores surged forward, their spidery talons and razor-sharp beaks tearing at his back and shoulders, seeking out his vitals. Their cawing sounded like laughter - sickening, malicious laughter. They were a kangaroo court of broken beasts, thirsty for blood, consumed by madness. Rats with wings, knowing only the pull of mindless hunger.

He held his ground... and in the flickering firelight, Blake caught the expression on his face: a smirk so _cold_ , it would have looked right at home on a Schnee.

The first of the demons reached him – and he greeted it with a kick to the jaw. The force behind the blow _shattered_ the oversized raven's beak _,_ snapping it cleanly off its face with a sickening _crack._ The beast, blinded by rage and pain, reeled, tumbling sideways – and _squawked_ , as it was impaled cleanly through the chest by a blade as black as pitch.

Flourished his swords, the stranger spun and crouched, a second Nevermore's claws passing through the space where his head had been. How he'd seen the blow coming, Blake couldn't be sure – but evidently, he _had_ seen it, along with the two that followed shortly afterwards. Pivoting on his heel, he lashed out with both blades of his blades, slicing out in a seemingly random direction.

Steel rang with satisfaction – and two more demons were filled with steel, their wings cleaved from their shoulders. They _shrieked_ in agony and tumbled from the sky, before striking the earth with wet, meaty thumps.

The sight left Blake reeling.

"...Yang. Are you seeing this?"

Blake risked a glance to her teammate – and found Yang pressed _further_ against the bars, as though she were trying to meld with the cold steel in her hands. Her mouth slowly opened, but no sound came out – and her lilac eyes _gleamed_ with excitement.

 _Of course she'd be excited_ , thought Blake; the stranger fought like a madman. His fighting method – to call it a style would be to give it too much credit – was a collection of random sword techniques, strung together in a method that worked. Soft feints and parries, hard counters and wild slashes that wouldn't have looked out of place in one of Ruby's video games... his movements were discordant, chaotic, lacking any sort of harmony or predictability. It was a method with no form, no substance. No pride - only ruthless application of what was most efficient.

And yet, his guard was full of holes – holes so obvious that even a _child_ would be able to see them.

But, in spite his style's jarring nature, it was _effective_. The stranger moved with such grace, such precision, and his strikes always seemed to snake towards vital areas. Every strike was debilitating or worse; no motion was wasted. His body moved like a well-oiled machine, and when his swords struck, they _never_ failed to hit their mark.

The paradox confused her, and like any puzzle, Blake couldn't rest until she solved it. The way he moved, the way he fought, spoke of a lifetime of training... and if such holes in his guard existed, they had to be...

"...You've got to be kidding," murmured Blake.

The stranger batted aside a Nevermore's gasping claws – and responded with a brutal thrust, piercing the Grimm's chest cavity in a smooth motion. Blake wondered, for just a moment, if Grimm _had_ hearts – but as the stranger pulled his blade free and she realized that she had more important things to worry about.

"What's wrong?"

Like Yang – who was staring at her like she'd grown a second head.

Blake shook her head. "Look at his feet. What do you see?"

"...He's got good taste in boots," quipped the blonde bruiser, raising a delicate eyebrow. "Black leather, ankle-high. Steel-toed. Ruby would approve." The faunus didn't need enhanced senses to taste the mirth in her voice. "You've got a good eye, partner."

"Now isn't the time, and that's _not_ what I'm talking about." One of Blake's ears twitched impatiently. "If you look, you'll see it – he's actually moving _slower_ than the Grimm. And he's slowing down, from the look of it."

Yang blinked – and furrowed her brow, examining the fight with a critical eye.

"...That makes no sense," she murmured. Blake could see the gears in her teammate's head turning. "He doesn't have any aura, so... how's he still alive, then? They haven't even tagged him yet..."

Blake sighed tiredly, her ears flattening against her head. "Those holes in his guard – they're intentional. They're _bait_."

"Say _what_?" She did a double-take, and her eyes widened. "You're kidding me."

"...I wish I was," Blake replied, her lips twisting into a grimace. "I'm not sure how he's doing it against one Grimm, let alone so many, but... he's reading their body language, setting up openings, and... countering their attacks before they're thrown. He's slower than they are, but he moves _first_ , so... it evens out."

A look of realization dawned in Yang's eyes – and her attention snapped back to the battlefield, just in time to see the stranger blindly cleave a Nevermore in half. Blood sprayed in thick gouts, vomiting from the corpse in a haze of black and red... but the swordsman wasn't phased.

He was already focused on his next target.

"Huh," she murmured. A moment passed - and then she spoke again. "That's fucking _awesome_."

Blake blinked – and shot a sharp glare at her teammate.

"More like _suicidal_ ," she glowered. "He doesn't have any Aura right now. One misstep and he dies. And if _he_ dies, _we_ die."

"In those boots, I don't think he _can_ misstep," Yang replied. She placed her hand on Blake's shoulder – and when she spoke, her voice was filled with awe. "Just look at him go. He's... he's _invincible_."

Blake's amber eyes drifted back to the stranger – and she found she couldn't disagree.

Blood misted through the air, clouding his eyes and staining his armor a darker shade of crimson. His twin blades, ivory and obsidian, gleamed in the firelight – and cleaved effortlessly through the hides of the surrounding Grimm like scythes through wheat. The blades struck _again_ and _again,_ in sweeping arcs – and the cloud of Nevermores was being torn apart, like the entire flock had been thrown into a _blende_ r.

The beaks and razor-sharp feathers of the Grimm beat against his guard in a frenzied staccato of blood and fury, but the attacks were deflected, blocked, countered and batted aside.

Flesh tore – and it _wasn't his_. Blood sprayed – and it _wasn't his_.

But then, Blake caught a shadow in her peripheral vision - Blake realized that her teammate was wrong. The light of hope, budding in her heart, _flickered_ – and was nearly snuffed out.

No one was invincible. Not Pyrrha... and not him. Not tonight.

Though their target hadn't been killed yet, the Grimm had managed to herd him out into the open, away from the safety of the tower. Their lack of self-preservation, and the ferocity with which they fought, had him forced on the defensive – and if he turned his back, if he tried to flee, there was a good chance that he wouldn't live to tell about it. Their frenzied talons might not have drawn blood, but they'd still managed to push him back, if at a cost.

And in that time, while the white-haired stranger had been occupied with the flock of murderous ravens, the dragon had not been idle. Apparently, not only could it breathe fire, it could _regenerate -_ because it was rising into the air again, soaring higher and higher on its tattered wings.

"Maybe not. _"_

Something in Blake's voice – the note of warning it held – distracted the blonde bruiser from their savior's performance. Yang met her gaze, a question on her lips – and then glanced up at the night sky, noticing what her teammate had just a second before.

"The dragon, it's..."

The tension in Yang's voice was so thick, she could cut it with a knife.

The dragon's throat was glowing white, rippling with heat. Its eyes, wicked pools of crimson, glowed with a depth of fury that no mortal creature was capable of possessing, a fury entirely focused on the stranger – the stranger who was occupied, _fenced in,_ unable to flee. But in spite of that – it waited, patiently, ignoring the chance to strike. That wasn't the behavior of some mindless beast; no. Clearly, the dragon was-

"... _intelligent,"_ finished Blake. A shiver ran down her spine. "It's letting the Nevermores do the dirty work, taking potshots. As long as they're forcing him onto the defensive, he can't draw his bow. And he's strong, but they have the numbers advantage. It's just a matter of time. The second he slips up..."

A Nevermore's screech pierced the night.

Yang fell strangely silent. Her eyes grew flinty, and her lips drew a hard line. It was an expression that Blake hadn't seen on her teammate before, but she'd seen it once before, earlier that night... on _Neptune_ , right before he'd -

"Hey, Blake," Yang murmured, glancing up at the dragon. "If I did something incredibly stupid, would you forgive me?"

The ravenette stiffened. Her ears flattened against her head – and her amber eyes flashed.

" _Yang."_ The name left her lips like a promise – and a warning.

Yang sighed. Her eyes followed the dragon as it soared through the air, circling higher and higher into the night sky. "Blake, you know it as well as I do. If he dies, we die too. Our evac's already pulled out, so... help's probably not gonna come. It's up to us to help ourselves. Our only shot is killing the dragon, and Sunshine over there has the best chance of getting the job done. But he can't do it alone."

"Yang, you're _missing_ an _arm._ " Blake hissed. ' _And it's all my fault.'_ She clamped a hand down firmly on Yang's shoulder, her fingernails biting into the torn fabric of her brown leather jacket.

"You go out there, you're going to get yourself killed." ' _And I'll never forgive myself.'_

Yang's gaze wasn't on hers, though – it was settled on the stranger, consumed in his distant battle against the Grimm. Even with her hair matted, even covered in dirt, even missing an arm, she looked every inch her namesake: fierce, prideful... and _powerful_. Anger flared in her eyes, anger and hurt – and she moved.

Her fist struck the cage, rattling the steel swords – and Blake flinched at the force behind the blow.

"I'm not a _liability_ ," Yang spat. "I can still _fight_." Lilac eyes bled to crimson, and Blake was drowning in them. She suddenly found it very hard to speak – but she managed to get the words out, even if they came in a whisper. A whisper that silenced Yang where she stood.

"...I thought you were dead."

She took a tentative step forward, until only inches separated her from her partner. Her death-grip on Yang's jacket loosened, and slid down her teammate's arm – until her hand was locked tightly around Yang's wrist. Tears, the tears she'd been holding off for _so long_ , blurred her vision - and it took everything she had not to let them fall. " _Please,_ Yang. Don't leave. Don't go out there."

Yang recoiled, like she'd been slapped – and she jerked her hand, trying to pull her hand away.

Blake never gave her the chance. The ravenette's fingers clamped down around her teammate's calloused digits like a vice. Fear, electrifying and cold, gave her strength she didn't know she had; her wound was all but ignored as she struggled against the blonde's insane strength. Because if she let go – if she let Yang leave – if she let the blonde bruiser throw her _life_ away, _again_ , for _her sake_ -

"If you died, I don't..."

Something wet dripped down her face, just beneath her left eye, tracking through the soot that flecked her cheeks like cheap mascara. Her breath hitched, once, then twice - and her heart dropped into her stomach.

"You're _family, Yang_. I can't... I can't _lose_ you."

Yang's lips parted, but she didn't speak. A response hovered on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't breathe it to life; her fierce resistance died as quickly as it had sparked, her arm going limp in the ravenette's grasp.

Crimson orbs met amber ones - and something within their depths looked... torn. Conflicted... _haunted_ \- as though they weren't truly seeing, but were instead blinded by the shadow of a memory. It was a thousand-yard stare, one that chilled Blake to the core, because it - because it reminded her of her own.

Yang closed her eyes, for just longer than a standard blink... and then, she moved.

Time slowed - and Blake sucked in a startled breath as a pair of soft lips pressed against her own.

The ravenette froze. Her heart thumped loudly in her chest. Confusion, _shock_ , overwhelmed her senses. For just a moment, she forgot about the battle raging around them – forgot about the bodies, the blood, the tears, and the heat of the dragon's flame.

The only warmth she felt was that of that of her friend and teammate: the warmth of her skin, and the warmth in her eyes.

They stayed like that for a moment – and Yang broke the kiss, pulling back. A heavy silence fell between them, as Blake tried to comprehend exactly _what_ had just happened. She brought a hand to her lips, and stared at her fingers, still wet with blood – and then at Yang, whose gaze held some emotion she wasn't familiar with.

Something warm... and something sad.

"I'm sorry, Blake."

And then her best friend's fist was buried in her gut, striking her sword wound dead-center.

Blake's eyes widened in pain and surprise. Black spots danced in her vision. She doubled over, coughing raggedly. Her arms reached out, entirely on instinct, as she tried to hold herself up - and they dug into the shoulders of Yang's jacket, pawing weakly at the cracked leather. She tried to inhale, but couldn't; the breath driven from her lungs.

Her legs buckled beneath her, unable to support her weight.

She fell, _down, down, down_ – and she was floating. No, she wasn't floating; an arm was wrapped beneath her, underneath her shoulders, lowering her to the ground like a newborn babe.

Yang's eyes met her own. Her blonde hair spilling about her shoulders, backlit by the shattered moon above, framed her like a halo. Her features softened, and her holding that same emotion Blake couldn't quite recognize, and her lips – those soft lips - drew a hard line.

"...Be safe."

Not a promise of return. Not a final farewell. Instead, a command – and a plea.

There was a scuffing sound – _boots on steel_ – and then a high-pitched grunt, as Yang vaulted over the wall of swords in a single bound. She twisted, mid-fight, and landed on the other side of the wall... only to stagger, listing to the side, lacking the balance she would have had with all four limbs intact. But that didn't stop her; it didn't even make her hesitate. Taking a deep breath, she surged to her feet, and ran out into the battlefield, towards the stranger and the flock of Grimm hounding him at every turn, heedless of the wicked dragon soaring overhead.

Black spots dotted the edges of Blake's vision. But even so, she could just make out Yang's golden hair fading into the distance. Her fingers twitched, vainly, as though trying to grab at her teammate's coat tails – to drag her back, kicking and screaming. To keep her safe. To stop her, before she... before she...

" _Y... Yang..."_

The darkness claimed her.

* * *

Yang vaulted over the wall of swords – and her feet struck the gravel with a muted thump.

She swayed slightly, thrown off balance; running with a missing arm was proving to be a challenge. However, Yang was nothing if not persistent. Rather than stumble and fall, she bent at the knees, catching herself – and shifted her center of gravity to compensate for the lost limb.

She loped across the battlefield, running as fast as she dared, the stranger in her sights... but the journey was a slow one. The distance was great, and the loose gravel beneath her boots didn't help any; it felt like she was slogging through ankle-deep sand. Her legs pumped like pistons and burned with each footfall.

But the burning in her legs was nothing compared to the burning in her heart... and though her eyes were on the stranger, her mind was somewhere else. Somewhere behind her, with the woman she -

\- Guilt. Anger. Fear. Regret. Four spokes on a wheel, endlessly turning, spinning through her mind like the blades on a fucking _bullhead_.

What she'd done was impulsive... rash. _Stupid._ She'd sworn to herself, all those nights ago, that she wouldn't... wouldn't _act_. Because Blake deserved so much more, so much better – and Yang knew it, even if she didn't know it back then.

The cat faunus was reserved in those days, more so than anyone Yang had ever met. Her golden eyes shone with intelligence, yet she very rarely spoke. Her body was lithe and powerful, her steps graceful beyond measure, yet she didn't hold herself like a fighter. She was beautiful – undeniably so, the refined sort of beauty that turned heads and stole hearts – and yet, she didn't seem to have any friends. Far from it, she actively _avoided_ people. She only spent time with her team when it was required, and she avoided personal questions like they were _landmines_. Her only companions in her self-imposed isolation were her romance novels, and that was how she preferred it.

It was almost maddening. The inconsistencies surrounding the ravenette, the little quirks she had, lit a fire under Yang. She'd made it her personal mission to get her partner to open up. It was a challenge, sure – but Yang was nothing if not persistent; it was a _game_ , a way to kill time and keep things exciting. She'd met Blake's stoic glares with mischievous smiles, and had taken no small pleasure in teasing her partner to the point of madness.

Time had passed... nearly a year, since the day they'd met. And in that time, Yang had discovered another side to her teammate – a side that Blake intentionally hid behind a wall of apathy, safe from prying eyes.

Blake was reserved, yes, but bold when she desired to be. Intelligent, yet driven by her ideals, untainted by cynicism in spite of the hardships she'd endured at the hands of both mankind and the White Fang. She was a free spirit – the kind that _rejected_ the world's wishes, determined to _be_ the change she desired... and that passion burned brightly, as bright as any star in the night sky.

That discovery had changed her. The games she'd played had lost their appetite... and the sight of Blake's amber eyes had started making Yang's heart race.

It wasn't uncommon for relationships to form between teammates. Huntsmen lived dangerous lives, after all, and that danger forms bonds of intimacy of trust beyond compare. Yang's parents – all three of them – were a good example of that, having teamed together back when _they_ attended Beacon.

But Yang had seen how _that_ had played out.

Raven had walked out on their lives. Tai had taken up drinking. And while Yang was young at the time, she was certainly old enough to understand abandonment. The woman who'd given birth to her, who'd brought her into the world, had strolled out their front door and never looked back. The void in her heart, the crippling sense of wrongness, of something missing, felt like it would swallow her whole.

Then, Summer had entered the picture - filled that void. She'd been everything Raven wasn't; kind and devoted, an endless source of affection. For a time, that is. She was Super-Mom, baker of cookies, slayer of demons...

...and she was taken in a heartbeat, killed on a mission in some far-off land.

If there was one lesson Yang learned growing up, it was this: relationships between teammates, between Huntsmen, _never_ worked out. They were doomed to failure from the moment of their conception.

As interested as she was in Blake... it was a risk she didn't want to take. And that was to say nothing of the fact that they were both _girls_. So she'd held her tongue. She'd taken her desires and locked them away, in a futile attempt to forget them. She'd buried them, underneath the guise of friendship and sisterly affection. Because their partnership was something precious, something she didn't want to lose, even if it wasn't what she wanted.

Because Yang knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that a relationship between them would never work – and if she confessed, things would _never_ be the same.

Then, Beacon had fallen.

She'd seen Blake with four feet of steel through her gut, courtesy of Adam. She'd watched him flick the blood away, with practiced ease – watched him _ignore_ her dying partner, callously disregarding the woman he claimed to _love_ as she bled out on the concrete. And even if she couldn't see his expression through the bone-white mask he wore, she could feel it: there was no regret, no remorse, in those eyes... only deranged satisfaction.

His cold lips had twitched into a smile... and then, all she saw was red.

Old emotions flared up. Adam's actions were the spark that lit the fuel inside her. Protective instincts, instincts she had no right to, _roared_ to the forefront of her mind, slammed aside any parody of rational thought, and _screamed_ at her to move _. Screamed_ at her to _save Blake_ , and to make the bastard who hurt her _pay_.

Before she'd paused to consider her actions, she was already soaring through the air... in a straight line, towards a psychopathic murderer with unparalleled bladework. She'd been goaded into striking, baited – and had paid the price for it. Adam had stepped into her swing, calmly unsheathed his katana, and brought it down on her with the precision of a guillotine.

She was lucky that an arm was the only thing she'd lost.

And when she'd awoken... the world she'd emerged into had changed, shifted into something darker and more terrifying. Her home was consumed in hellfire. Her team and her friends had been completely destroyed. The notions of invincibility she'd had were shattered like fine china – and they continued to be shattered, every time she reached for something with an arm that wasn't there.

And that scared her, like she'd never been scared before.

Threat of failure – of _death_ – became something real, something she could smell on the breeze and taste in the dirt that threatened to swallow her whole.

Still, she tried to be strong, to put her teammates first, because she couldn't _afford_ to be weak. Not when her little sister, her friend, and her partner – her team, her _family_ – needed her to be their anchor. She'd ignored her missing arm, and she'd stifled her tears, burying all of the fear and panic and _despair_ underneath a wall of iron resolve.

A wall that shattered the second Blake had started crying.

Seeing the tears in her partner's eyes, seeing the concern etched in them, hearing the ravenette whisper her _name_... they dragged her buried desires, kicking and screaming, into the light. Every impulse in her screamed at her to make it better – to show Blake that she _wouldn't be alone_. To show her how she felt, because there was no guarantee she'd get another chance.

So she'd acted. In a moment of insecurity, in a moment of weakness, she'd _kissed_ Blake... and what she'd done afterwards was even worse. Knowing that Blake wouldn't let her leave, she'd taken matters into her own hands.

One swift blow, and Blake was out like a light. As a result, Yang was free: free to do what needed to be done. But her actions would come with a price. If, by some miracle, Yang survived - even if Blake _could_ reciprocate her feelings - she wouldn't. Because Yang had hurt her, and then she'd walked away.

 _'Just like Adam.'_

Rage, hot and heavy, pulsed within her chest. Her knuckles, calloused and bloody, went white within the embrace of Ember Celica; the weapon responded to her touch, cocking back with an ominous _clack_. Her movements grew stronger, more sure, a telltale sign of passive aura enhancement. Blonde hair burned gold as her Semblance activated, responding to her rampaging emotions – and her eyes bled deep crimson, as deep as those of the Grimm. Every muscle in her body tensed, like a bowstring mid-draw – and that tension gave her _strength._

She threw herself into the air, and slammed her fingers down on the trigger.

 _Cla-bang!_

 _Ember Celica_ discharged, and the recoil sent her hurtling through the air.

Through her golden locks, she saw the Grimm... but it didn't look like they'd seen her. As mindless as they were ferocious, it seemed that all of their attention was focused on the white-haired swordsman in their midst, and on the bloody steel in his hands.

That thought angered her even _more_. It felt like they were ignoring her – _like Adam ignored Blake. Turning his back, blood dripping down the length of his katana, a fucking_ smirk _on his lips, like he'd just won the fucking_ lottery _-_

 _"Out of my way!"_

 _Ember Celica_ snapped forward and released its payload.

 _Cla-bang!  
_  
Concussive buckshot, enhanced with red dust, was a huntsman's ideal choice against large groups of lesser Grimm. Buckshot wasn't very useful for penetrating armored targets, but it had spread, something very few semi-automatic weapons – like _Crescent Rose_ or _Myrtenaster_ – possessed. Young Grimm, in particular – like, say, the newly-spawned Nevermores – tended to have less armor plating, making them very vulnerable to shotgun rounds.

Now, infuse said rounds with a pinch of _fire dust_ , and the results become rather... _explosive_.

So, when Yang pulled the trigger, all hell broke loose.

Those explosions ripped through the flock of Grimm like a hammer through wet cardboard. The blood-spawned Grimm dropped like flies, flash-cooked from the inside out, their feathers scalded and blistered by the sudden heat, their bones cracked by the conflicting waves of concussive force.

The flock thinned, if only for a moment - and Yang took advantage of the opening she'd made, diving through the ring of fire and into the heart of the swarm.

But she wasn't the only one. A handful of Nevermores followed in her wake, streaking through the opening she'd left. She could feel their rancid eyes boring into her, could taste their rotten breath on the wind. Perhaps they thought they could ambush her when her back was turned; perhaps they were merely driven by instinct, and had given chase because it was all they knew how to do.

Either way, it would be their last mistake.

Crimson eyes bared their fury to the world. Teeth parted in a savage roar. Blonde hair, whipped back by the explosion, framed her head like a halo. Like an artist's rendition of an avenging angel, Yang descended to the earth, rolled -

\- and came up _swinging_.

 _Cla-bang! Cla-bang!_

She spun and back-pedaled furiously, keeping her pursuers firmly in her sights. With each thrust of Ember Celica, fire lanced through the night, spiraling towards those Nevermores foolish enough to follow her down the rabbit hole.

In closer quarters, her shots didn't have quite as much spread, but they were still obscenely effective at cutting through the blood-born Grimm. Her first shot took out three of her pursuers. They buckled and folded, their flesh rippling like candle wax. Two more emerged in the shadow of the first three, diving around the bodies of their fallen brethren, all but suicidal in their approach of the blonde bruiser – and she made them pay for their greed with a well-placed shotgun round.

"Dinner time! Get it while it's _hot_!"

 _Cla-bang! Cla-bang! Cla-bang!_

The swarm parted before her onslaught like a river striking a delta. The crimson in her eyes deepened with each punch, darkening and _gleaming_ , as the haze of battle overtook her. Her heart beat like a war drum, as she was literally drowning her in a sea of feathers, adrenaline, blood and black ichor -

 _Cla-bang! Cla-bang!_

\- and she _loved_ it. The smile creeping its way along her jaw was a testament to that fact.

It was the ultimate catharsis. The ultimate release. A high like no other, a danger like no other, that overrode her fears and worries. It helped that the masked Grimm reminded her of Adam; the fear she might have felt facing such an overwhelming force was shunted aside entirely, replaced by an overwhelming hunger, a thirst for bloody execution.

A pair of claws raked across her back – and she grunted at the force behind the blow. Reaching blindly, her hand snapped out – and grabbed the Nevermore foolish enough to have struck her, wrapping tightly around its neck.

"Getting sloppy, flyboy. Maybe you should take a _break!_ "

Her fist closed with a sickening crunch, and she tossed the dead bird aside -

\- only for another pair of talons to rake along her exposed shoulder, as a Nevermore caught her in passing. It let out a triumphant screech, making her ears ring; she listed sideways, stunned. More talons followed in its wake, raking up her back and sides with vicious _glee_ , as she desperately tried to defend her vitals with only a single arm.

One of the birds lunged for her face – and she brought up her fist in a wild haymaker, trying to kill it before it took her eyes. Her blow struck true, snapping the beast's neck – and the Grimm's dead body continued forward, barreling into her chest, knocking her feet out from underneath her.

Normally, she would have weathered the strike and followed up with a counter – but the gravel beneath her feet was loose, shifting like quicksand, and losing an arm had taken its toll on her balance. However, Yang was nothing if not persistent. She tumbled backwards, kicked the body of the fallen Nevermore over her shoulders, and rolled into a crouch. Panting, she flicked away the droplets of sweat that clung to her forehead -

\- and stared.

Another dozen eyes met her gaze, each as crimson as her own – and they seemed to be grinning, _taunting_ her. As though they knew something she _didn't_.

And then, she felt something... wet, dripping down her mangled arm. She spared a glance at her shoulder... and noticed, to her dismay, that her favorite jacket had been torn – and that blood, _her_ blood, oozed between the torn leather strips.

The Grimm had tasted blood... which meant that she was running out of Aura.

Her Semblance flickered like a dying flashlight - and began to fade. The flames licking along her golden locks dimmed to embers, and though her eyes remained crimson, she could feel her strength slipping away, slipping through her grasping fingers like grains of sand.

A note of fear settled in her breast... and at that precise moment, another of the Nevermores – slightly larger than its peers – blurred towards her, in a mindless whirlwind of black feathers.

She stumbled backwards, throwing up a hand to shield herself -

\- and her gaze was filled with a sea of red.

Red _cloth_.

The white-haired swordsman stepped forward, putting himself between Yang and the Nevermore - and brought his twin blades down in a vicious arc. The blow was timed perfectly; not a movement was wasted. In an almost casual display of skill, the Nevermore's head was removed from its shoulders.

Yang stared at him for a moment, not trusting herself to speak. She took it all in – the shredded armor, blood, the steam rising from his limbs, the way his swords glistened in the firelight – and the way he reminded her of her Uncle Qrow, as he stood with his back to her, _protecting a stupid girl and her little sister, riding along in a little red wagon._

The moment passed.

"Shit," she breathed, letting out a breath she didn't know she was holding. She pushed herself up, staggering to her knees, a task easier said than done. Her back and shoulders burned, like they'd been doused in _acid_ – but she endured, as she always had. Besides, the relief at being alive was more than an acceptable painkiller. "Thanks for the save, Sunshine."

"...Sunshine?" She could _taste_ the disapproval in his voice.

"Hey," the blonde retorted, her eyes flashing with mirth, "You didn't give your name, so I had to improvise. If you don't like it, that's your own damned fault." She fumbled at her belt, her shaking fingers freeing her spare magazine from its holster.

The man grunted, as though he'd swallowed something particularly unpleasant. "Very well then. Since it looks like we'll be fighting together – you can call me Shirou."

"...Shirou?" Yang parroted. She paused, thoughtfully – and then shook her head. "Nah. Doesn't have the same ring to it."

Shirou scowled at her, like a disappointed schoolteacher – and neatly bisected another Nevermore that had strayed too close to the blonde bruiser, without so much as a _glance_. It was almost eerie to watch; his reaction time was insane, and his combat instincts even moreso. "What are you even _doing_ here? Why aren't you back with the others?"

"Saving the day, same as you," Yang replied, nonchalantly, as she fumbled with her spare magazine. It was much harder to reload with only one hand, especially when it wasn't her dominant hand – but she muddled through it. "It looked like you were doing a shit job, so I thought I'd step in."

"Stupid girl. You really have a death wish, don't you?" The glare in his eyes, this time, was real – and his scowl was as sharp as the steel within his hands.

"The name's Yang. And if I had a death wish - I'd let you fight by _yourself_ ," she retorted, any fear she _might_ have felt quickly forgotten in the face of overwhelming annoyance. "Can't a girl get in on the action?"

"Not when she's missing an arm."

And that was _precisely_ the wrong thing to say.

Yang's eyes narrowed – and flashed a deeper of shade crimson. Then, in a fit of rage, she lashed out with a straight left, and pulled the trigger of the freshly-loaded _Ember Celica._ Dust-enhanced munitions streaked into the distance, framing her jawline in a flare of red light. Then, the rounds exploded, casting Yang's features into stark relief. The hovering flock let up a ghostly wail, as its numbers were thinned further.

The entire time, Yang's eyes never strayed from Shirou's own. Even under the cold steel of his glare, even under the weight of his deep-set eyes, she was unflinching, unrepentant – and _unafraid_.

"For chumps like these, I only _need_ one arm," she growled, her voice as fiery as her hair. "Either get with the program or _leave,_ and find yourself a discount _parking spot_ while you're at it, you geriatric _asshole_."

And then -

\- Shirou smirked.

"As you say."

Yang blinked, reeling at the sudden change in his demeanor. And to her further confusion, his gaze drifted over her, dismissing her entirely, flickering skyward - focusing on something in the distance, something far beyond the wall of Grimm that swarmed around them like bats.

The white-haired swordsman jerked his head towards the broken moon – and the shadow that eclipsed it. "The dragon's coming around for another pass. Use that weapon of yours. Make me an opening. Then, get clear. You don't want to be standing here when it falls." His words were short, clipped - precise.

"...Wait, what?" She dared to ask, her lilac eyes flickering in his direction. However, her words were met with empty air; Shirou was already moving – towards the waiting storm, gliding over the sea of gravel and fallen Grimm with great, loping strides.

Rolling her eyes, and cursing under her breath, Yang shifted her stance, dropping her right foot back. She hefted one-half of _Ember Celica_ , and trained it on the swarm overhead.

Taking a quick breath, she grit her teeth – and slammed down on the trigger, as hard and fast as she could bear. Without Aura to soften the recoil, she felt like her arm was getting torn apart at the joint. Still, that didn't stop her; she used the pain, fed on it, bathed in it. Her rage soared to greater heights – and even as her limb groaned beneath each trigger pull, she refused to stop.

She pulled the trigger – again, and again, and _again,_ until her gun clicked empty _._

 _Cla-bang! Cla-bang! Cla-bang!  
_  
Dust-enhanced ammunition ripped from the barrel from _Ember Celica,_ illuminating the tortured landscape in its wake... and the rounds struck home at the heart of the swarm, lighting up the sky like a dazzling fireworks display. Searing gouts of flame filled the air, scorching her lungs and tousling her hair, even from such a great distance.

Smoke and ash rained down from overhead, searing her eyes and scratching at her throat; wincing at the sudden discomfort, Yang buried her head in the crook of her elbow, trying to stave off the worst of the blow-back. Cautiously, she raised her head, peeking above the crook in her elbow with a single eye -

\- and she staggered back, breaking out into a cold sweat.

Before, her rounds had pierced this swarm. This time, they _obliterated_ it. The flock had been decimated by her assault, its numbers nearly halved - and a ring of fire hovered in the air, like a hole-punch that she'd pushed through the paper-thin flock ahead. However, _that_ wasn't what startled her; it was what she'd seen _within_ the ring that had her heart racing.

The dragon was much bigger up close. She'd observed it from a distance, but hadn't been on the receiving end of its terrifying stare. The sight of it – gliding towards her like the reaper himself, its eyes gleaming like bloody moons – sent a wave of ice down her spine, strangling the breath within her throat as effectively as any garrote. .

And then she spotted the tell-tale glow of plasma, bubbling within its gaping maw. A maw so close that she could make out each and every one of its teeth, teeth that jutted from its jaw like rusty _nails_.

It was coming in for the kill. And Shirou, his swords and armor soaked with blood, was running towards it in a straight line - _directly in its flight path_. Blood streaked from a dozen cuts across his body, a reminder that he had no functioning aura.

In that moment, Yang knew that the dragon was going to _kill him_ as surely as she knew her own name. It was going to kill _him_ , and then it was going to kill _her_ , and then _everyone else_ would die. Ruby... Weiss... _Blake_.

Amd as if responding to her thoughts, the dragon's eyes glmmered with malice – and _understanding_. Like a bird of prey, it swooped low, its massive talons skimming the earth, digging trenches in the loose gravel.

Then, its teeth parted, and its tongue flicked out as though to taste the breeze. There was a sound like a _knife_ scraping down the strings of an _electric guitar_ -

\- liquid fire, hot enough to melt steel, spewed from the beast's throat and tore through the night air, destroying everything its path -

\- and Yang sank to her knees, her stomach clenching in horror, as Shirou's outline was consumed by the blaze.

* * *

Flames washed over the earth, flames so bright they burned like napalm, casting the world around him into stark relief. The hissing and popping of concrete, and the rush of displaced air, swallowed the death cries of dozens of newborn Grimm as they were incinerated in the scorching heat.

And as his shadow was consumed by the blaze, a memory surfaced within Shirou's mind, a faint echo of a life long past. A memory of a boy, stumbling through a shattered world, casting pieces of himself into a great fire in an effort to stay alive... only to be consumed.

But Shirou was not consumed by _this_ fire; no, he rose above it, _airborne_ , soaring towards the dragon's open maw.

Hellfire licked at his tattered clothing, singeing his reinforced skin - and its unearthly glow shielded him from sight, giving him the element of surprise... an element that Shirou intended to exploit, as he brought his enchanted blades towards the dragon's eyes. Its pupils dilated – a sign of its intelligence - and the beast shifted to the side, dipping its head and corkscrewing to avoid the strike.

The effort was too little, too late.

The dragon's wing had been damaged at the joint – and even with enhanced regeneration, such wounds took far longer to heal than mere cuts. Though it could fly, the beast's movements were still stiff... _clunky_. If the dragon were smaller, that might not have been an issue... but it was large enough that its size had become a liability.

So, without any fanfare, with all of the strength he could muster, Shirou thrust his swords hilt-deep into the dragon's exposed eye.

The dragon let out a savage roar, equal parts pain and fury, a roar that Shirou felt thrumming in his chest. Crimson blood – greasy and uncomfortably hot, like candle wax – bubbled from the wound, flecking his hands and face.

Reinforcing his grip, Shirou forced himself to hold on, squinting his eyes to shield them from the racing winds.

Then, he planted his feet into the dragon's bony jawline – and with a herculean effort, he _heaved_ , jerking his blade sideways and down _._

The dragon shrieked and tumbled _sideways_ , dropping from the air like a stone - and dragging the white-haired swordsman along for the ride.

Downward, downward, downward they soared. The dragon attempted to slow its descent, frantically beating its wings, but those instincts only served to turn its descent into a _barrel roll_. And _still_ , Shirou kept a firm grip on his swords, even as his legs were pulled loose from their footholds by the force of the dragon's spiraling descent.

The burning in Shirou's limbs increased, as they were reinforced _beyond_ their limit - and he felt his grip slipping on the leather grips of Kanshou and Bakuya. A dull throbbing pulsed through his wrists, and there was a _crackling_ sound. He felt like spider webs were brushing up and down his forearms, and his grip went slack - but he forced those tortured muscles to hold on, to continue their tug-of-war, if only for a moment longer.

The ground approached, faster and faster by the second – and moments before impact, as the ground rose up to meet him, Shirou finally relaxed his grip.

And for the second time that night, Shirou was falling.

A handful of precious seconds passed, and then he struck the earth. His feet bit into the earth, throwing up dust – and he stumbled, as they gave way beneath him on the loose gravel. His head shot forward, its momentum uncontested - and he was suddenly choking on gravel.

Black, red, and white flashed across his vision. Like a stone across a lakebed, he skipped across the desecrated battlefield, bouncing once, then twice – and skidded, before rolling to a stop.

His hands stung, like someone had taken a belt sander to them. His arms and legs burned like they'd been caught in the dragon's fire, even though he knew that wasn't the case. His head was surprisingly clear, but his breaths came in thick, choking gasps – and each movement sent sparks of pain shooting through his shoulders. Face-down in the dirt, prostrated before the fallen remains of the school, pain was his only companion.

A companion he rejected.

Trembling, he raised his head from the dirt – just in time to watch the dragon's descent reach its natural conclusion.

The dragon continued forward, a helpless victim of gravity, one blinded by pain and confusion. Even if it was aware of its surroundings – and Shirou was fairly certain that was _not_ the case, not anymore - it would not have been able to change its trajectory in time to make a difference. It was simply too large, too heavy, to right itself.

And as the saying goes... the bigger they are, the harder they fall.

The behemoth's pained roaring died in its throat, as the beast slammed into the remains of Beacon's academy. The sound of the blow echoed across the ashen battlefield like a thunderclap. Twisted steel and plaster dust burst from the academy's windows in a fine _mist_ as the entire structure _collapsed_ atop the dragon's back. The beast's momentum was brought to a screeching halt.

There was a shriek from within the wreckage - a shriek of sudden _agony_ -

\- and the academy erupted in a massive _fireball_ as its precious Dust reserves were ignited.

Heat washed over Shirou's face, and the force of the blast tousled his hair.

The shrieking was cut off... and replaced by blessed silence.

Shirou stared at the wreckage of the building, at the hellfire that consumed it... and a sudden wave of exhaustion washed over him with all the subtlety of an oncoming train. His head swam, and his eyes slipped shut. All of the tension, all of the fatigue that he'd been fighting for so long, demanded that he rest.

He was happy to oblige it.

Then, he heard a voice. It buzzed in his ears, like an insect – and Shirou realized that the dragon's roar must have blown out his eardrums. Fighting against the aching in his bones, he managed to push himself onto his hands and knees – and felt, to his surprise, an arm looping underneath his own.

"Hey, hey. I've got you. Come on, Sunshine – up on your feet." The voice sounded far away, like a whisper in a coal mine, like a kettle boiling in the distance.

He couldn't respond. His thoughts were sluggish, his body ached, and he felt sleep tugging at his eyelids. Blood ran in rivers down his back, soaking into his torn armor... and he was suddenly cold, clammy, chilled by the lingering night breeze. Had it always been so cold? He honestly couldn't remember.

Static flashed across his vision, and he was suddenly on his feet, a blonde-haired woman supporting him under one arm. Her golden locks tickled his chest, though he noticed the sensation as a footnote within his mind; everything else, the shock of his sudden exhaustion, physical and magical, overwhelmed every other sensation.

"There you go. That's it," she whispered, her eyes shining brightly in the flickering firelight. "I... I can't believe... you actually did it. You _killed_ it. You _saved_ us."

He met her gaze with his own – and something in her expression changed. As he watched, it grew... hard. Weary. Concerned – and sad.

"You're a hero, you know that?"

And still, he didn't respond. His sunset eyes slipped shut, and he sagged into her shoulder, feeling sleep's soothing embrace tugging at his limbs.

"...Woah, hey," the woman said, her voice soft – tender. "You're looking pretty beat there, gramps."

He opened his mouth to reply - and suddenly, the world shook.

Beside him, the woman stumbled - and she listed sideways, trying desperately to keep him aloft. Needless to say, she failed - and the ground rushed up to meet him.

At first, he thought he'd passed out. Perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him, and he'd simply lost his balance of his own accord. That notion was discarded, when his keen eyes noticed Yang crouched beside him.

She was awake as well – but she wasn't moving. No, her eyes, rimmed with fatigue and glistening with unshed tears, were focused on something in the distance. Her mouth was open, her lips parted in a silent prayer – as though bearing witness to some unspeakable tragedy.

That was not acceptable.

His mind cleared, and the gears within it – rusted and worn by fatigue and overuse – ground into motion, _screeching_ , forcing him to think. To analyze. Even as waves of pain blossomed behind his sunset eyes, he forced himself to remain observant, to remain conscious.

Looking up, at the smoking wreck that was Beacon Academy... Shirou saw something stir, shaking aside literal _tons_ of collapsed mortar and steel as it climbed to its feet. Something _big_ ; something _familiar_.

Its scales had been torn asunder, as though someone had taken a cheese grater to its hide and cauterized whatever flesh remained. Massive wings that had once blocked out the moon were mangled and crushed, bones protruding from it like sores on a leper. Half of its face was a mess of black burns and torn flesh; its eye socked was _empty_ , its edges flecked with charred blood. The flesh had peeled back from its jaw, exposing muscle and sinew and jagged teeth. It looked like something out of a horror film.

It reared back its head - and _roared_.

The dragon was alive. Wounded, but very much alive. And it began lumbering towards them, shaking itself free of the rubble.

The girl beside him didn't move. His eyes, glazed with fatigue, fixed on hers – and within their depths, he saw _despair_. He saw the eyes of a person in need, a person with no hope of salvation – who had dared to pray anyway, in hopes that a hero would arrive. Because he had given her hope – and that hope had been crushed.

That was not acceptable.

The words were on his lips before he could second-guess himself.

" **I am the bone of my sword**."  
 _  
_His resolve hardened. His mind sharpened. His muscles screamed and his bones cracked, a sensation comparable to climbing a mountain with a broken _spine_ – but he forged onwards, climbing to his feet. He turned to face the dragon, even as the girl beside him tugged at his shirtsleeve, urging him to flee, to stand aside.

She didn't understand. She couldn't.

The dragon came closer still, its throat glowing with searing heat.

Unthinking, unflinching, he dove into the archives of Unlimited Blade Works, searching for... something... something to turn the tide of battle. The prana cost didn't matter – he'd be dead regardless. But if he didn't kill the beast, the woman standing beside him - _who had offered her aid, who had stood beside him, despite knowing the consequences_ \- would perish.

That was not acceptable. Because -

\- _you are not him, shirou, you'll never be like him_ -

\- the girl, and her friends, had to live.

He thrust out a hand – and knocked Yang aside. She stumbled, thrown off-balance, and landed behind him, sprawled across the ground.

" **Steel is my body, and fire is my blood**."

Prana – prana he _knew_ he didn't have to give – left him in a rush. Red and black flashed behind his closed eyelids, blood dripped from his nose and ears, and his heart throbbed painfully.

Then, his senses turned to steel.

His body felt like it was boiling from the inside out. His mind, however, remained just as strong – and it clicked and whirred into motion, drawing up the blueprints for the weapon he needed. The weapon best suited to annihilate the monster standing before him.

 _Hypothesizing the basic structure.../_

 _Sympathizing with the experience of its growth.../_

 _Replicating the accumulated years.../_

 _Synthesizing component materials.../_

The girl behind him sucked in a quick breath, a sound that somehow registered despite his deadened senses. It was a sound of warning – of urgency. His vision was consumed with static, and his mind awash with pain, but he could understand that much. Grunting with the effort, he blitzed through the remaining steps, butchering the finished product, sacrificing prana efficiency for speed.

His thoughts skipped and faltered, like a vinyl recording on a broken record player - but he continued gathering the power he needed. Lightning crackled into being, surrounding his hands and discharging into the earth at his feet. It danced along his arms, shredding at his armor, searing his flesh, making his grip spasm.

 **"Trace, On."** His voice was sharp, hard, cold – like the steel in his heart.

The lightning twisted, hardening, taking shape - and between his empty palms, a magnificent greatsword appeared. Drawn from the archives of Unlimited Blade Works, forged upon the anvil in his mind, and brought forth into the material world.

The sword was easily eight feet in length from hilt to tip, and was as wide as Shirou's torso. It wrought of golden steel from grip to tip, and a blue jewel was embedded in its hilt, a jewel that gleamed and sparkled as bright as any star in the the dead of night. The weapon so large, so magnificent, that it would have been unwieldy for any man, and in legend, this was the case; only inhuman hands were capable of wielding it to its fullest extent.

But Shirou was not a man.

His distortion, his flaw, was his greatest strength; it was his rock in a sea of blood, grounding him where others may have faltered beneath the churning waves. And in that moment - standing on the remains of the fallen school, his armor torn, his limbs heavy with fatigue – Shirou was not a man. No.

Standing before that dragon, his lifeblood raised in a single act of defiance, Shirou was something else entirely: an _ideal._

He was not a man – for _his body was made of swords_.

One final torrent of _liquid fire_ spilled forth from the dragon's throat, consuming the world in a blazing inferno, a torrent of plasma hot enough to melt steel into slag. The light of it seared his eyes, and the approaching heat scorched his flesh, raising welts and blisters on his bare hands... but he did not falter.

No. Never that.

Instead, he took a deep breath – and spoke six words. Six words, that would remain with Yang for the rest of her days. Six words that would spell the dragon's end. Six words that would spark a golden age - and reshape Remnant itself.

" **Felling of the Sky Demon-** "

His sword dropped.

"- **Balmung.** "

And the world was awash in azure light.

The concentrated beam of prana arced through the air, streaking from the blade of his sword in a jagged arc - and struck the approaching dragon's flame. The force of the discharge pushed Shirou backwards through the gravel, but he stood firm, unyielding. The two opposing attacks - the dragon's searing breath, and the scalding light - warred with one another, battling for dominance, their struggle tearing the world asunder.

Then, after a precious second... the dragon's flames began to falter.

Shirou's hearing had long since disappeared, obscured beneath a wall of steel and static. And so he couldn't hear the dragon's increasingly desperate roars, as it fought to hold stave off its impending demise – nor could he hear it writhe and choke as its own flame was forced down its throat. But in its eyes, just before it died, he could _see_ a single, solitary emotion, one that festered within its hallowed crimson orbs.

 _Fear._

Then, the wave of azure _pulsed_ – and it overtook the dragon entirely, swallowing the mangled beast from head to heels.

Where the light touched, destruction reigned, as the malevolent dragon was purified of the very evil that comprised it. Its impossibly thick scales were shattered like cheap stage-glass. Its flesh, as dark and sickly as its hide, tore away in strips; its black ichor boiled away, turned to steam.

Lightning danced across every inch of the beast's exposed flesh, lightning and power so bright that it lit the night like a second sun. Its snout snapped backwards, its muscles faltering underneath the sheer power behind the blow, power that ate away at its essence like molten acid. It opened its mouth to let out a ghostly wail, a wail of surprise and agony, that it could ever taste defeat at the hands of a mere _mortal_ -

\- and the beast's head, from the jaw up, was severed from its shoulders. The dead beast's wicked maw toppled backwards, and struck the earth with enough force to register on the Richter scale.

* * *

The sun began to rise, signaling the dawn of a new day.

Hollow eyes stared at the dragon's smoldering corpse - or what was left of it.

 _Balmung_ vanished into motes of light and prana, slipping between numb fingers. It disappeared before it struck the earth, taken by the breeze.

Static filled an empty mind... and the ground surged upwards.

A heart skipped a beat – then two – then three.

Lungs spasmed... again. And again. And again.

Warm lips pressed to cold ones.

 _Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump._

Tears fell – and someone's breath hitched.

Violent winds tousled snow-white hair. Lights gleamed overhead, pulsing faintly, in hues of red and -

\- _Ice-blue eyes stared down at him, longingly. Fingers brushed brushed through his hair, a hand tenderly cupped his cheek -_

\- and one of the bullheads, its propellers whirring in slow-motion, descended from above.

He smiled _._

* * *

 **[Author's Note – Fell the Tempest]**

 **[Rejoice]:** Emiya Shirou fanboys, your wish has been granted!

 **[Conclusion]:** This chapter concludes the first arc of the story, the Fall of Beacon. I hope this battle has met your expectations. Writing it was definitely a challenge, but one I thoroughly enjoyed.

So, this was the longest chapter in the story so far, and it's also the longest chapter I've ever written. 17,000+ words: at 500 words per page, that's nearly 35 pages. The reason being is that I had so much I wanted to introduce, so many fun details and character interactions I wanted to share - and I didn't want to post another cliff-hanger that would interrupt the fight. Frankly, you guys have been through hell, and as much as I enjoy entertaining you, there is a fine line between being a tease and being a jerk. ( **knightoblivion** pointed this out, feel free to thank him in the reviews.) So, instead of stopping halfway, I posted this all at once; this submission is basically three chapters in one, so I hope the read was worth the wait.

 **[Moving Forward]:** The goals of this story arc were to introduce Shirou into the world of Remnant, to showcase his power, and to sufficiently tie him in with Beacon's students. Additionally, I wanted to introduce all of the characters who will play roles in the story (some greater than others), and to set the tone of the story through character action and interaction.

Now that the scene has been set, the characters introduced, and the Battle for Beacon is concluded... the story's tone, and pacing, are going to change. The next story arc is going to be much more dialogue-oriented, with plenty of mystery-solving and intrigue... and will address many of the questions that you readers have had.

 **[Clarification – Shirou's Existence]:** Shirou has been summoned in a mortal body to Remnant. Additionally, there is currently _no contract_ linking Shirou and Alaya. Why could that be, I wonder? If you're familiar with Fate lore, you may be able to make an educated guess as to why that is. No spoilers though - everything will be discussed in the coming chapters.

 **[Clarification – Shirou's Limitations]:** Shirou possesses great power, but he can't call on such power freely. His mortal form comes with limitations, just like anyone else's, and those don't just extend to traits like speed and strength, but also to prana capacity. In life he was never a walking powerhouse in terms of raw magical energy, and his new body reflects that origin. His mind, on the other hand, remains just as sharp; his biggest assets are his skill, his experience, and his versatility. Think Eye of the Mind – he's able to tactically analyze a situation and boost his odds of succeeding, even if there's a one percent chance of victory. He can still reinforce himself, allowing him to contend with huntsmen and Grimm alike. But what distinguishes him among other combatants is that he still has access to Unlimited Blade Works. As a result, he is still a major contender in terms of power, but his limitations make him more of a realistic character. He /can/ fail – as was almost the case here. He overestimated his prana capacity (which was limited by his human body and his botched summoning), deployed _Caladbolg_ at the start of the fight, and paid the price for that mistake.

 **[Pairings]:** Yes, this story is going to have romantic subtexts, prompted by character deaths and the sudden loss of normalcy in the wake of Beacon's collapse. Bumblebee is going to be prominent among those pairings. However, I want to make something clear: far too many stories in this fandom turn promising same-sex relationships into fetish material. That will not be the case in this story: their relationship, in whatever form it takes, will draw on their characters and remain as true to the source material as possible. Other pairings will emerge later in the future, but again, these will all be sub-plots, not the main focus of the story. Also - I've never written romance before, so if you have any suggestions for improvement, I'd love to hear them.

 **[Cover Art Contest]:** I'm holding a contest, for those of you who like this story and who like to draw. Right now, Remnant's cover art is a generic stock image of Emiya Shirou, and I'm looking for something more original. If you're interested, feel free to submit your cover art; the best submission will be put as the new cover art and I'll credit you in the story description, as well as in future chapters of the story. Can't wait to see what you guys come up with!

 **[Remnant Soundtrack]:** More songs added to the list! Check out my profile and take a look. Billy Talent, Rise Against, Sum 41 and Audioslave.

 **[Thanks]:** Once again, a huge thank you to **knightoblivion** for his continued aid in beta-reading this story.


	6. Chapter 6: Sea of White

**[Chapter Six: Sea of White]**

His vision was filled with an endless sea of white. A white ceiling, built upon white walls, loomed above him. White fluorescent lighting buzzed nearby, although it wasn't needed; the open window beside him provided all the light he needed. White sheets, drawn to his chest, kept him comfortably warm – and a vase of white flowers, sitting on a nearby end table, spoke of a recent well-wisher.

White. Like - like the girl. The girl he... saved.

Memories of the dragon and the children returned to Shirou in a rush. On instinct alone, Shirou sat up, his sunset eyes fixed in a heated glare, reaching for swords that were not yet there – and as he attempted to Trace them, he was hit by a sudden, crippling pain. It washed over him like the dragon's flame had nights before, a pain that skittered across his skin like lightning and left him breathless: the pain of inflamed magic circuits, protesting their recent abuse.

Shirou listed sideways and toppled out of the hospital bed, a half-formed sword in his grip. The vase at his bedside tipped sideways and dropped to the floor, shattering into a hundred tiny fragments. A sharp sting lanced through his arm, as he tore out an IV – and his entire body suddenly hurt, like he'd been run over by a tractor.

But he was _alive_. And he felt surprisingly good, all things considered.

His limbs were stiff with disuse, but they were all attached, and he could feel his _prana_ returning in a slow trickle. It would be a day or two until he could properly Trace again, but that was a small price to pay for what he'd accomplished.

Forcing himself into a sitting position, Shirou leaned back against the bed and closed his eyes for a moment. Much to his ire, it took a few seconds longer than usual to quell the rampant beating of his heart – but he succeeded.

The blade in his hands dispersed into motes of light, vanishing as quickly as it appeared.

The pleasant weight of his armor was absent entirely. He didn't know where it had gone, or if it was even _salvageable_ anymore; it was designed to handle many threats, but a duel with a Phantasmal Beast was not among them. Regardless, it was an asset lost, something he would have to work without. In its place, he was wearing a pair of grey sweatpants – loose-fitting, with drawstrings at the ankles – and no shirt. Medical gauze criss-crossed his torso, forearms, and back; his fingers were taped, wrapped in little cocoons of cloth and antiseptic.

Wherever he was, and whoever his caretakers were, they clearly wanted him alive. That, he supposed, was a good thing. Maybe this turn of events was a sign that his luck was improving. Perhaps the soldiers had taken his actions against the dragon as a sign of his allegiance, and they'd treated him out of the kindness of their hearts.

Shirou staggered to his feet, glanced towards the window – and noted the bars that crossed its threshold. Then, he sighed. _'It was a pleasant thought, while it lasted.'_

His thoughts were interrupted by an ominous _click._

The resurrected Counter Guardian forced himself to not react, even as the door behind him – wrought of thick steel, painted white, with a magnetized lock - slid open, its pressurized hydraulics hissing like something out of a science fiction film. With an effort of will, he kept his hands loosely at his sides, tucked into the pockets of his pants, and his eyes on the window- on the _reflection_ of the man within it, the man who entered the room, the doors sliding shut at his back.

He stood just shy of six feet, and was clothed in dark colors – blacks, blues and greys that seemed to overlap and blend together like the feathers on a bird. His hair was as black as pitch. A silver necklace, similar in design to a Christian cross, dangled at his neck by a thin length of cord – and a tattered sanguine cloak hung from his shoulders.

Meeting the man's eyes – eyes as red as any Grimm's, eyes that shone with amusement – Shirou felt himself tense.

That tension vanished as soon as the man opened his mouth, and the potent smell of alcohol wafted into the room.

"Mornin', Dragon-Slayer," he slurred, his voice as rough as his five-o-clock shadow. He leaned back against the doorway, hands in his pockets, and flashed Shirou a grin. "How ya' feelin'?"

Shirou didn't dignify him with a response. Instead, he folded his arms across his chest, a bored expression plastered on his face – refusing to respond to the man's obvious ploy.

"Strong, silent type, huh?" the man mused. He stroked at his stubble thoughtfully. "I get it. Edgy. Probably works well with the ladies. But you don't have anything to prove to me – You're not my type, and after what you've accomplished, well... I don't think anyone's gonna question your manhood."

And again, silence was his answer.

"Well, then," the man sighed, "If you're not gonna talk, I suppose I'll start. But first, I'm gonna need some fuel. 'Scuse me."

The stranger withdrew his hand from his pocket – and in it was, of all things, a _flask_. Because, clearly, the man's thirst hadn't yet been slaked. Cracking open the lid with practiced ease, he brought it to his lips and knocked it back.

"... _This_ is how you conduct an interrogation?" Internally, Shirou winced; his voice was scratchy from disuse, and his throat was incredibly dry, like he'd swallowed a cup of sawdust. But he couldn't afford to show weakness of any sort, not in front of a potential enemy. Setting his shoulders, he fixed the stranger with a disappointed scowl.

The man held up a finger – and took a second mouthful, before dropping the flask from his lips with a satisfied sigh. Then, he capped it again, but didn't bother returning it to his pocket. The Counter Guardian had a sneaking suspicion that it would see plenty of use in the coming minutes.

"First off – this isn't an interrogation. And if, hypothetically, it _was_ one... well, I gotcha talkin', didn't I?" The man retorted, his crimson eyes shining with amusement. "If it works, don't knock it. And besides – I'm not _drunk_. I'm just... pleasantly inhebriated."

Shirou's _pleasantly_ _inebriated_ interrogator swaggered into the room, scuffing his boots on the tile as he did. Then, in a lazy movement somewhere between a hop and a barely-controlled stumble, he slid into an empty chair by the base of the hospital bed. A lopsided grin split his lips. "Name's Qrow, nice to meet ya'."

Shirou raised an eyebrow at the man's demeanor, feeling entirely confused. He'd anticipated a number of scenarios that he might encounter upon being awakened. A pleasant conversation was far from the top of the list, but it wasn't ruled out. More likely was a tense interrogation, or perhaps physical torture, depending on the politics of the world in which he'd arrived.

Nowhere on that list was an encounter like _this_.

"Shirou," he replied, shortly. His sunset eyes narrowed in suspicion. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

"Yep." Qrow remarked, unphased. After a moment of silent contemplation, he steepled his hands together. "I'm guessing you're no stranger to this song-and-dance – and that works for me. Bullshitting around isn't my style. So, today, I'm gonna... tell you some stuff, and you're gonna tell me some stuff."

Shirou eyed the man expectantly, and motioned for him to continue. Qrow indulged him, with an appraising eye.

"We – and by 'we', I mean the Vale military, along with remnants of the Atlas Specialist Forces and the surviving Huntsmen from Beacon – patched you up." He scratched at his nose. "You had a bunch of weird injuries. Torn joints, severed tendons. A few cuts, burns, blood loss and hairline fractures. Your heart kept flat-lining, and your brain activity was _off the charts_. No one here's seen anything like it. You were touch-and-go, for a minute there."

An amused grin split the rogue's lips. "You should have seen the local doc take a look at your EKG – he started foaming at the mouth. Had me thinking epilepsy was contagious."

"It's not," stated Shirou. His voice was as flat as the tile beneath his feet – and his stare was just as cold. "Get to the point."

Qrow huffed, and leaned back in his seat. "Don't kill my fun, asshole. I'm entitled to laugh at your expense. Do you have any idea how much of a bitch it was bringing you back?" Then, he shook his head. "Point is: if you were anyone else, we wouldn't be having this conversation. No expense was spared to treat the _Hero of Beacon._ "

Shirou opened his mouth, a retort on his lips – and it died, as the weight of the man's words sunk in.

"... _Hero of Beacon?_ " His voice was slightly less scratchy that time, though it still grated on his ears.

Qrow's expression sobered slightly, but his tone was no less mocking. "You're famous around these parts, now. Or infamous, depending on who you talk to. I mean, _shit._ You killed a dragon, and it wasn't exactly _discrete_. Pretty much everyone saw it. In the last few days, with everyone recovering from the battle and having nothing better to do, the rumor mill's been churning up a storm. So, congratulations! You now have a fan club."

Shirou scowled, feeling a sudden headache coming on. "You've _got_ to be kidding me."

Rogue Magi, Dead Apostles, and even Servants – he could deal with those. Even a dragon, apparently, was not above his pay grade. But a _fan_ _club_? Even with his access to Unlimited Blade Works, he wasn't equipped to tackle _that_ monstrosity.

"Nope. You should hear the rumors," Qrow chided, grinning wickedly. "There's a betting pool among the Hunters that you're a long-lost son of the Schnee family, or another one of Ironwood's experimental soldiers. Some of the more... religious types, shall we say, think you're a 'chosen hero, sent by the gods to win the war against the Grimm' – and I can't really blame them."

Surprisingly enough, that last label sounded surprisingly accurate... rather, it would have been, if his summoning had been routine.

Eager to change the topic of conversation, Shirou glared pointedly at his interrogator. "And what do you think?"

"I think you're dangerous," Qrow replied.

"Oh?""

The dunken rogue snorted, as though amused by some inside joke.

"Listen, Shirou," he began, grinning lopsidedly. "I make it my business to know things. It's what I _do_. If someone's packin' enough heat to toast an Elder Drake, you can bet I've got tabs on 'em. But you? I've never even _heard_ of you. And yet, you showed up in the middle of a war zone, and did just that... apparently out of the kindness of your heart. No explanation, no price tag... a miracle. Apparently."

Qrow considered his flask – and then set it aside, resting it on the end table. Then, his piercing gaze settled on Shirou. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees – and his friendly smile vanished without a trace.

"Now, some people might have bought into the whole 'divine savior' act," he began, conversationally, "But me? I don't take chances. So, I called in a few favors, and ran your blood through every medical database known to man _and_ faunus. You've got no records, no birth certificate – nothing. For all intents and purposes, you don't exist. You're a ghost."

"Something like that," Shirou replied. The corner of his lips twitched up into a smile.

"Nah. Ghosts – they don't exist, except in our heads," Qrow continued, as though discussing the weather. "There are only the living... and the dead. Your answers are gonna tell me which one you are." And as he leaned he reached for his flask, his arm extending – his cloak was brushed aside.

And beneath that cloak, Shirou caught a tell-tale glinting of steel.

But even if he hadn't seen the man's weapon – _a collapsible greatsword that doubled as a scythe, forged twenty years ago, bathed in the blood of demons and men alike, its edges wrought of reinforced carbon-steel and tipped with diamond dust_ \- the look in his crimson eyes told Shirou everything he needed to know.

For all his posturing, for all his claims of intoxication, Qrow was _dangerous_. He was intelligent, fiercely so. Any threat he made, he was more than capable of backing up. And, given Shirou's condition – given his inability to Trace, and the aching that persisted in his limbs - if they fought, victory would be a statistical impossibility.

"So," Qrow continued, eyeing Shirou like a bloodhound eyes wounded game, "Let's start. What brings you to our doorstep, Dragon-Slayer?"

Folding his arms over his broad chest, Shirou leaned back against the wall – and sighed. "I wasn't involved in the battle by choice." He closed his eyes. "You could say I was dragged into it, by a woman. I'm sure you understand."

"A woman, huh?" Qrow asked, steepling his hands. His tone was deceptively soft, but words were pointed – like little daggers, digging into the skin, searching for weakness. "She must have been something special, if she could drag you into the fighting. Powerful enough to force your hand, too."

"She was... persuasive," Shirou allowed, shrugging his shoulders.

Qrow took a moment to digest that response, and eyed Shirou closely. And when he spoke, his words carried an ominous weight to them. "Does the name Cinder Fall mean anything to you?"

Shirou met the stare with one of his own. "Should it?"

Silence fell. A moment passed, then two. Qrow tilted his head, as though listening for something – and then he sighed, glancing away.

"...No, then. I'm not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved."

"Sounds ominous," replied the white-haired swordsman. He raised an eyebrow. "I'm guessing she's trouble."

"Imagine a psychopath on a revenge kick, with a supercomputer between her ears and total mastery over fire," Qrow murmured. "A woman with the moral compass of a Beowolf – normally something I'd find endearing, but I make an exception in this case. A cold-blooded mass-murderer, who can control the Grimm with her Semblance, and has no reservations about using it on civilians."

The dots connected, and Shirou finally understood. "She summoned the dragon." A mortal, able to ensnare the mind of a beast of such _power_... she wasn't to be underestimated. His thoughts drifted, to the night before, to the dragon – and to the woman he'd glimpsed, above the flames, atop broken tower. The woman with dead eyes, and a sultry grin that showed far too many teeth.

Something ice-cold settled in his gut.

Qrow's eyes flickered to his own - and something in Shirou's expression must have given his thoughts away, because he nodded.

"It get worse. The invasion – all of it – was her doing. Tens of thousands of confirmed dead within the first six hours, most of them children and non-combatants. We don't know the exact numbers, we don't know where any survivors are... hell, we don't know if there _are_ any survivors, since she took out our long-range communications with her opening shot."

As he spoke, his blank expression sharpened into a fierce glare – and settled on the floor between his feet. "She turned Remnant into a war zone... and right now, its protectors – the Huntsmen and Huntresses who managed to survive the incursion – are stuck here, blind and deaf to everything going on in the outside world."

He ran a hand through his obsidian locks, grinding his teeth – and then he blinked, the fit of rage leaving him as quickly as it appeared. His shoulders relaxed, his hand dropped back to his knee – and he shrugged. "If you'd had any connection with Cinder, we could have used it... found her base of operations, maybe, or had some insight into the next stages of her plan. Guess that's a lost cause. But, on the bright side, that means I don't have to turn the man who saved my nieces over to the General for a more _intensive_ interview. So, on that note..."

Qrow leaned back, and held out his flask. In an instant, his cold demeanor had vanished – and was replaced by smirk. "...have a drink?"

Shirou stared at his interrogator in disbelief, trying and failing to keep pace with the man's emotional rollercoaster. Perhaps it was the alcohol, or maybe it was just his nature – but Qrow's constantly shifting mood made him hard to read.

"You can't be serious," he said, scowling.

"We're in a hospital, you're a patient, and _this_ is nature's anesthetic," he replied, shaking his flask pointedly. "Shut up and take your medicine."

After a moment's hesitation, Shirou shook head, brushing aside Qrow's outstretched hand. "And we were getting off to such a good start, too."

"Even the best friendships have rocky patches," mused the rogue, completely unphased by the blunt dismissal. He leaned back in his chair, and put up his feet on the end table beside Shirou's hospital bed. "Usually, it's because someone is keeping secrets. So, Shirou... care to share?"

Shirou paused to consider his options. It didn't take him long.

Like he'd anticipated, saving the children had put him in the good graces of the Vale Military. There was a chance – and it was looking more and more likely, based on everything he'd heard so far – that his captors were potential allies. Allies with resources he needed, resources that could ensure his survival... and maybe, just maybe, they held the answers to the burning questions he had.

He had been summoned to this place, this strange world, with its broken moon and its forests full of nightmares– but _how_? If it was an accidental summoning, why was he chosen out of the hundreds of Counter Guardians in Alaya's service? And for that matter, _where was she_? What had happened to their contract?

Suspicion grew in his gut, suspicion and a hint of fear. His freedom was an unexpected boon, a miracle by any standard – but Shirou had learned in his many years that no miracle came without a price. And so, the most important question remained: what was the cost of his newfound freedom, and _who would pay that price?_

Cooperation was in his interests, but - _  
_  
\- "Not without something in return."

"You're not really in a position to bargain," Qrow mused, raising an eyebrow. "Don't know if you've noticed, but we've sorta got you by the short-hairs. I mean, look at you. You're as weak as a kitten, stuck behind bars. Telling us what we want to know the smart move. It'll save us all a lot of trouble. You won't have to die, and we won't have to hide a body. It's a win-win."

Shirou stared levelly at Qrow. "Really now? That's not the way I see it."

"Tell me what you see, then."

Walking over to the window, Shirou glanced through the bars – and observed the world outside with a critical eye.

What was once an empty field had been converted into a military encampment. Airships, their hulls torn asunder, were placed haphazardly across the clearing, nestling into the soft grass like flightless birds. Fires glowed within their bellies; judging by the flow of refugees and, they'd been re-purposed into living quarters in order to handle the huge number of refugees.

Men and women in brightly colored clothes, armed to the teeth with weapons of exotic make, scurried through the encampment like ants. Orders were being shouted, crates lifted, gurneys carried. Medical personnel, accompanied by robotic assistants, buzzed about the clearing, treating the wounded – even as more ships landed in the distance, bringing with them more refugees in need of food, shelter, and treatment.

Refugees that would not be there, if Shirou hadn't intervened. He ran a hand through his snow-white locks, and breathed out a sharp sigh.

"Through my actions I've already established myself as an ally, if one of coincidence. I've saved the lives of hundreds, if not thousands, through my actions – and I did so in a very public forum. As you've said – I'm a... celebrity now." His lips curled with distaste. "It's in your interests to cooperate with me. After all, what would happen to the morale of your people if they knew you'd imprisoned the _Hero of Beacon_? If you tried to kill him?"

Qrow's waved his hand dismissively. "That's making an awful lot of assumptions – about my men, and about me."

"Observations, not assumptions," corrected Shirou. "This is a time of war. You can't afford to take chances. Both of us are negotiating from positions of power. Your power is in your men... and right now, mine is in their spirit."

Then, Shirou leaned back against the windowsill – and closed his eyes. "We both have questions, questions that need answers. Rather than try to strong-arm one another, let's trade information, and maybe put a few of them to rest."

Qrow considered that idea, and then lowered his flask. "Say that I agree to this... trade. If I throw you an olive branch, how do I know you're not gonna stick me with it? How do I know you're not gonna open your mouth and spoon-feed me bullshit?"

"You don't, and that's a risk we'll _both_ have to take."

Qrow gave him a look of thinly veiled amusement. "...Are you sure you aren't working for Cinder? You're awfully casual about all this. Most people would be pissing themselves about now, but you..."

Shirou resisted the temptation to scratch at his bandages. Though he'd always been a quick healer, he could still feel pain, just like any other mortal – and every time he shifted, the gauze covering his wounds would shift, grating against the torn flesh beneath like sandpaper.

"I'm not most people," he stated, simply.

"Alright, Shirou. You've got yourself a deal. First question – something light, as a warm-up." He cleared his throat. "Those blades you used – are they your Semblance? And how did you activate it without any Aura?"

 _'So much for an easy question.'_ Shirou folded his arms across his chest and scowled. _'I have no idea what either of those are.'_ And by asking that question, by asking what they were, he would open the door for more questions to be asked – questions of a sensitive nature, with answers that were as unbelievable as they were true, answers that he wasn't eager to give.

After a moment of silent contemplation, he raised his head. "...What do you think Aura is?"

Shirou could see the gears turning in Qrow's mind, as he tried to puzzle out the Counter Guardian's cryptic response – and he shrugged, good-naturedly. "Humor me, and I'll do my best to answer you."

"Well," Qrow began, scratching at his five-o-clock shadow, "No one's really sure. Every human being has one, whether or not it's unlocked, since the beginning of written history."

He sniffed. "Best we can guess, Aura is... soul energy, or something close to it. It does its own thing, more or less: it protects us from injury, makes us heal faster, makes us... stronger. Quicker. Without Aura, we wouldn't stand a chance against the Grimm."

"And Semblances?" Shirou asked, a nagging suspicion settling in his gut.

"If Aura is the fuel, a Semblance is the engine. It's a specific power that all Aura users have. No two are the same, and they vary by their user's personality." He blinked. "I've seen people absorb lightning strikes and redirect them. One of my nieces can take hits and add their strength to her own. She's always been a fighter. My old partner could teleport at will, half-way across the world in a single bound. And Cinder – like I said earlier – she can control the Grimm. What that says about her... well, I'll let you be the judge."

A chill ran down his spine, one that had nothing to do with the tile beneath his bare feet.

"...Altering the rules of reality, unconsciously projecting one's being onto the world, limited to a single pattern... a pattern that reflects the wielder," Shirou whispered, the hairs on the back of his neck raising.

"...Well, yeah," replied Qrow, shrugging. "Semblances - they're reflections of the soul."

Shirou closed his eyes.

If what Qrow was saying was true, then every single person on Remnant – every man, woman and child - had a _Reality Marble_ , or something close to it.

But that was impossible. _Unreal_. Because, to Shirou's knowledge, were only two ways a human being could come to possess such a cursed power, and neither one was common.

The first was to be distorted: to possess a warped view of one's self, or the world in which one lives. Generally, this was the product of serious trauma, experienced at a young age. Shirou was a prime example of this; the same fire that had stolen his identity had also reforged him. It could be said that he was not a person, but a sword, an ideal, given flesh. Thus, Shirou - and his perception, that would eventually become _Unlimited Blade Work_ s - were born.

But distortion was an extremely rare trait, and even if a person was distorted, they might not be able to manifest a _Reality Marble_. It was a skill that took an exceptional amount of power, far beyond the reach of most human beings, and even most magi.

And that led to the second way of attaining a _Reality Marble_ : to be inhuman, or to be touched by inhuman power.

Demons, Devils, Angels, and all manner of otherworldly creatures were likely to possess _Reality Marbles_ , due to their age – because living for thousands of years will, without failing, distort one's perspectives of life and death, along with one's sense of self – and due to their raw power, a power no mortal man could ever achieve in his lifetime.

Their inhuman perception, enforced by their unconscious will, would warp the rules of the world. The laws of physics, time, space, and even life itself twisted in their passing. The presence of such a being was like a stone falling into a clear pond, causing ripples and aftershocks, even if the stone were to remain inert.

How was it that so many people had access to that cursed power? Distortion, on such a large scale, wasn't a possibility. Age wasn't, either; as he'd witnessed, these people were as mortal as he was. By the rules of the world he knew, the world he'd left behind... that left only a handful of possible explanations, none of which were pleasant to contemplate.

But maybe this _wasn't_ his world. Maybe his earlier suspicions had some merit. The dragon, and the nightmares answering its beck and call – they were like none he'd seen before. It was entirely possible that Remnant and Earth were different entities, dancing to different tunes, operating under different sets of rules. So, then. If that were the case - what sort of world was he in? What were its rules? How did Weiss manage to summon him, a Counter Guardian from an another realm? And, most importantly -

 _'Why am I here? What is my purpose?'_

Forcing his expression into a mask of delicate neutrality, Shirou banished those thoughts from his mind. Whether or not their discussion was amiable, it was still technically an interrogation, and Qrow, by his own admission, didn't hold any answers.

"You could say that my swords are my Semblance, then," he replied, finally. "As for Aura... I've never needed it. For as long as I can remember, I've possessed an ability known as 'reinforcement', an ability that serves essentially the same purpose, at a cost to myself. It allows me to enhance my physical attributes, although unlike Aura, it doesn't appear to actively shield me."

Qrow raised an eyebrow – but appeared satisfied by the answer.

"Now, then," Shirou continued, glancing pointedly around the room. "Where am I?"

His interrogator took the question in stride.

"Blackrock Memorial, on the Isle of Patch," he replied, tucking his hands back into his pockets. "It's a decent hospital, if a little understaffed. Would have gone all the way to Atlas – they've got better facilities – but the ports are on lockdown, and we didn't have the fuel to camp out on the border. In the meantime, we've been rationing supplies and playing triage, making the most of what we have."

He gestured lazily to the window, and the people outside of it. "As you can see, it's a little... chaotic, right now, but it's the best we could do on such short notice."

"Lockdown?"

Qrow nodded, his lips drawing a hard line. "In the span of about six hours, the most powerful military forces in the world, united together - along with thousands of innocent people – were annihilated, and a certain someone broadcast live footage of the carnage all over the CCT. All those deaths have caused a lot of fear, a lot of hate, and that negativity's bringing the Grimm to our doorstep."

And then, his eyes narrowed. "But it gets worse. Nobody knows who to trust. The world we thought we knew was overthrown in the span of a night - and Atlas, in particular, was cast into a bad light when its automated security forces turned on civilians. It used to be the world's leading superpower, and crime was almost unheard of in its borders. But now..." He raised the flask to his lips once more, took a swig, and sighed. "Fear brings out the worst in everyone – and it's showing. There's rioting in the streets. Homes are burning. Meanwhile, Atlas' remaining military is busy defending its borders from the Grimm, so it can't step in to stop the madness. Until it all calms down, no one's getting in – or out – of Atlas. It's just too dangerous."

In the distance, another bullhead landed in the clearing, its bay doors opening as soon as it touched down. A dozen more refugees emerged from its belly, but Shirou's eyes settled on one in particular: a child - a child with a vacant stare, and a dazed expression. A little boy – perhaps five years of age, with knobby knees and dirt-stained cheeks - who was alone in the chaos, likely separated from his parents.

A child who was oblivious to his silent watcher, sitting within the comfort of his hospital room. Oblivious to that watcher's hardening gaze.

Shirou blinked – and suddenly noticed that Qrow was standing beside him, his lips drawn into a hard frown. His gaze was inscrutable, but his hands were in his pockets, his shoulders were slumped, and his expression - it was one he'd seen before, many times, on the faces of those he'd saved.

"You've seen war." Qrow said, quietly.

"You could say that." Sunset eyes lingered on that child, until he was suddenly accosted by a diminutive faunus woman in well-worn hospital scrubs. Like a mother hen, she fussed over the boy, worry in her eyes, checking him for injuries. Kneeling beside him, she whispered something in his ear – and he blinked, as though just noticing her presence.

"Mmm. Tell me about it. Who did you fight for?"

"...Whoever needed me."

He couldn't see the woman's expression, but the way her shoulders heaved – the way she wrapped her arms around that boy, clinging to him like a lifeline – told him everything to know. And the boy, staring up at her with that vacant expression -

\- _taking his first breath, he opened his eyes. The fires of hell burned around him, and the smoke blotted out the stars. Screams like birdsong gouged at his ears. Burning flesh filled his nostrils with its taint. But none of that mattered, b_ _ecause in the midst of that carnage, he'd been saved – an impossible survivor, recovered from the ashes of the living. Looking up at his savior, that man with wonder in his eyes and rapture in his heart, he -_

\- relaxed into her embrace. She hefted him into the air, balancing his tiny body on her hip, and the two of them disappeared into the sea of filthy bodies. Despite his enhanced vision, it wasn't long until Shirou lost track of the pair entirely.

"A mercenary, huh?" Qrow palmed the flask for a second time, offering it to Shirou with a knowing look... and this time, the offer was accepted.

"Something like that," he mused, bringing the flask into the light, tracing its worn edges with a heavy gaze. His voice gave nothing away – but his expression was bittersweet. _'A janitor, and a faker.'_

And despite his reluctance to speak, he found himself doing it.

"I traveled a lot." At Qrow's raised eyebrow, he nodded. "Killed a lot, too."

"People?" the rogue asked, his expression neutral. His posture, his deceitful calm, gave it away; the question he'd asked was one he'd already known the answer to.

"...More than I cared to," Shirou admitted.

"Ah. One of _those_ types."

Shirou raised the flask to his lips, and winced as the disgusting swill – if it could be called that - washed over his tongue. It tasted like a potent mix of nail polish remover and burnt oatmeal, singing his nose hairs and making his stomach do backflips with its passing.

Alcohol had never been his drink of choice. It clouded the mind, and ensnared the senses; it was a luxury, or so he'd heard, but it was one he'd never partaken of. And in that moment, he realized he'd made the right decision. How anyone could subject themselves to such torment, let alone do it with a smile, Shirou had absolutely no idea.

But, for all his complaints, the taste cleared his palate – and his thoughts. With a soft sigh, he set the flask down – and when he spoke, his voice was as clear as his conviction.

"Not anymore."

Qrow glanced up at the Counter Guardian out of the corner of his eyes, and his expression became unreadable. His crimson eyes flickered over Shirou's bandaged chest, lingering on the gauze that bound his shoulders – and turned back to the window-pane, and the world outside of it.

"That's not what Ruby tells me." At his words, Shirou stilled. "The way she tells it, you stuck up for and her friends. Put yourself between them and the Grimm. Nearly paid the price. Whatever your baggage, you did good. And the people out there, whether they're able to thank you or not... they're here because of you."

The white-haired swordsman grunted. "You know what they say about old habits."

Then, Qrow shrugged, and stepped back from the window. Thrusting his hands back into his pockets, he stalked back towards his seat, and threw himself bodily into it. "Well, either way. You'll be happy to know that most of those kids made it out okay. They're missing pieces, here and there, but... they're alive. Mostly."

Shirou sighed quietly. "And Weiss?"

Qrow shifted in his seat, and his crimson eyes flickered with curiosity.

"She took a beating, but – again – Atlas medical tech ain't too shabby. She's... stable, for now," the rogue replied. "Why the interest in our resident heiress? Not that I put stock in the crackpots, but... _are_ you her long-lost cousin or something?"

Shirou returned Qrow's confused look with one of his own – and the drunken rogue smirked. "It's the hair, and scowl. You're the spitting image of a Schnee."

Shirou resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "No. To my knowledge, we aren't related. The reason I'm interested is far more complicated." He turned to face the window. "She brought me here."

"...Huh?" Crimson eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What do you mean, 'brought you here'? Are you... what, her butler or something?"

"She uses glyphs to direct her Semblance, doesn't she?" Folding his hands behind his back, and ignoring Qrow's lost expression, Shirou continued. "How familiar are you with the art of summoning?"

His interrogator took a moment to digest that implications of that question – and he scowled. "You were right. I call bullshit."

"I thought that way, too, once." He had to choose his words carefully. "Tying back to our earlier discussion – you said that 'every person on Remnant has an Aura'. The fact that I don't have one should speak for itself."

Qrow stared at Shirou, silent, for a moment – and his flask was, once again, in his hand. "Two types of people would make a claim like that: crazies and liars, and neither one would try to back it up. You have. So, at the very least, you _think_ you're telling the truth. If you're not from Remnant... where are you from?"

"...I don't remember," Shirou said, averting his eyes.

"You don't remember," Qrow drawled.

"Weiss' summoning was interrupted, and that may have impacted my memories. I have... vague flashes, of a life once lived, but... nothing concrete," he murmured, folding his arms over his chest. A technical truth... a thin one, but a truth nonetheless.

The Counter Guardian knew where he was from – his mission, his pact, who had sent him, and the world he fought for - but that knowledge was dangerous. That knowledge held power. Caught up in a game he didn't know the scope of, that power was all that would keep him alive. Information like that, if it fell into the wrong hands, could spell his end.

That couldn't happen. Not before he figured out his purpose... not until he was sure the children were safe, with his own eyes. Not until he could take some time and think – about his newfound freedom, and where it should take him.

But there was an obstacle standing in his path, one that hadn't been addressed yet... one that he would need to deal with, at his earliest opportunity.

"Cinder."

"What about her?" Qrow asked, leaning forward in his seat.

"You mentioned that she can control the Grimm. The appearance of the dragon shortly after my arrival - the _timing_ \- couldn't have been a coincidence."

The question went unspoken, but Qrow heard it all the same. Rapping his fingers along his arm, to the pace of a beating heart, he sighed – and leaned back in his seat. "Cinder... she was there, on the battlefield. She was probably gonna call the Elder Drake down on us, but then, you showed up. Gave her a more appealing target."

His lips twitched into a smirk. "Lucky for us, you were packing heat. Concert played with fire, and got burned - can't say I'm disappointed."

"And yet," Shirou replied, his sunset eyes flashing, "something tells me she won't take the loss sitting down. Not if she's as ambitious as you say."

Qrow folded his hands beneath his chin – and his demeanor sobered. "Our mutual acquaintance doesn't leave anything to chance. She's paranoid like that. By killing her pet, you've drawn a line in the sand. But she's a master of the long game; she won't risk showing her face unless she knows winning's guaranteed."

And then, he winced. "...No telling when it'll happen, but odds are she'll be back to finish you off. Probably sooner, rather than later."

"Good," Shirou replied. "That saves me the trouble of finding her _."_

Ignoring the way Qrow's brow disappeared into his hairline, Shirou sighed. "Now, then. Am I free to leave this room?"

"Depends. After I let you out, what's your next move gonna be?"

And at that point, the hospital door hissed open – and a woman entered the room, her heeled boots clicking imperiously on the tile. She was clothed in a military uniform of some sort – white with blue and gold trim, similar to that of a naval officer. Her snow-white hair, swept up and behind her ears and secured in an elaborate bun, failed to shield her eyes – which widened in surprise. Her clipboard slipped between her suddenly twitching fingers and clattered to the floor, piercing the calm of the hospital room like a gunshot.

"Ah. Just in time." Qrow glanced over his shoulder, and waved at the newcomer. "Was wondering when you'd show up, Winter. Feel free to kick off your shoes and settle in, we're just getting to the good stuff."

The aptly named Winter stared at Qrow like he'd just confessed to murder. Her eyes flashed as coldly as her namesake, and her jaw tightened; her snarl displayed far too many of her pristinely white teeth.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

"Drinking profusely, and having a pleasant conversation with our friend, here." Qrow picked at his ear with his pinky finger - and stared at it, feigning interest. "He looked lonely, and kinda bored, so I thought I'd swing on by, say hello. I'm a good neighbor like that."

" _Really,_ Qrow?" The woman's eyes narrowed, before settling on the flask beside him – and she recoiled in disgust. "Drinking, in a _hospital_? And I thought I told you to let the man rest! Now is not the time to be questioning him!"

"Look at him," replied Qrow, pointing a thumb vaguely in Shirou's direction. "He _is_ resting. And the booze is _helping_."

"Men," Winter hissed, drawing a hand over her eyes. She let out a sharp breath. "Well, since you're _sharing_ ," she spat out the word like a curse, "I'm under the assumption he's not in Cinder's employ."

"Nope," replied Qrow. "Don't get me wrong - he's an asshole, but he's not _that_ big of an asshole."

Shirou kneaded the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "It seems that no matter where I go, I'm surrounded by children."

"I'd say welcome to Beacon, but it's... well, it's kinda _gone_ now."

" _Qrow_!"

"Uh. Too soon?" The man in question cleared his throat - and his carefree grin widened. "Well, Shirou. It seems I've, ah, overstayed my welcome. I think I'll see myself out."

He made to stand - and a hand clapped on his shoulder.

"Not so fast." Winter seethed. She tightened her grip on Qrow's lapel. "You're coming with me, and we're going to have a talk with General Ironwood about your treatment of guests and your bedside manner. There are limits, Qrow Branwen, to what I can deal with... and you have a habit of stampeding all over them. This is going to stop, _now_.

"Lighten up. It's not like the world's going to end," Qrow said, rolling his eyes. Stumbling to his feet, he met her heated glare with a knowing grin. "Also. You're cute when you're mad."

Winter scowled, biting back a curse - and was promptly ignored, as the target of her ire turned away from her. Instead, his crimson eyes settled on Shirou, and he smirked. "By the way. You're free to go, whenever you're feeling up to it... just stay local. And when you're back in fighting shape, if you're looking to earn your keep... I might have a job or two for you. There's plenty of work for a man with your talents, work that could do a lot of good for a lot of people, and I'm sure we could work out some kinda payment."

He started walking, brushing past a silently fuming Winter – and paused in the doorway.

"As for your... lineage," Qrow mused, "it might be best to keep that information close to your chest. With all that's going on, the last thing either of us needs is a witch hunt. I'm sure you understand."

Not waiting for a response, he glanced over his shoulder - and gave Shirou a wicked grin. "Later, _Sunshine_."

Shirou glowered at the man's back as he retreated from the room.

Winter's glare matched Shirou's, boring equally bloody holes in the back of Qrow's head... and then she sighed tiredly, shaking her head. After retrieving her clipboard form the floor, she stood, making to leave the room - and paused mid-step.

Turning, and brushing a stray lock behind her ears -

 _\- Ice-blue eyes met Shirou's. They drifted over his bare chest, lingering on his wounds, filled with a touch of worry, and -_

\- Winter cleared her throat.

"Thank you," she said, after a moment's hesitation. Her tone was formal, though there was a touch of warmth in it. "As a representative of the Schnee Dust Company, the Atlas Military, and... as Weiss' older sister. You've done so much for us - for _her_. If there's anything I can do, to repay you for your actions, speak it."

She trailed off, eyeing Shirou expectantly - but he didn't respond, not immediately. Instead, he turned his back, much like Qrow had moments before, and focused on something in the distance, far beyond the camp - beyond the horizon.

Taking his silence as a dismissal, Winter knelt to retrieve her clipboard.

"Winter," he said.

She stood, waiting attentively, as cool and composed as her namesake.

"...Where are they?"

"One floor down. West wing, room thirty." She replied. Her fingers rapped a pleased staccato against her thigh. "They've been asking about you. We haven't told them you're here - for security reasons - but now that you're awake..."

She smiled. "I'm sure they'd appreciate it if you stopped by."

"I'm sure they would," he replied, closing his eyes.

Winter's expression faltered. Smoothing out her coat, she backed out of the room and - and the door hissed shut behind her, leaving Shirou alone.

Alone, once more, in a sea of white.

* * *

The room was dark. The lights had been shut off, in order to conserve power. The only source of light came from the window, and the broken moon within its frame.

Crisp white sheets, soft and supple, swallowed their occupant whole. Midnight tresses, matted with sweat and dried blood, spilled across an overstuffed pillow. Cat's ears, freed from their satin cage, failed in their usual twitching; amber eyes, always shining with silent amusement, remained shut. Lips, once stained with blood, were curled into a peaceful smile – and lithe fingers, ever-turning the pages of a romance novel, remained unnaturally still.

Within those sheets, Blake Belladonna slumbered, unaware of time's passing - and equally unaware to the woman who sat beside her.

"...I've always hated hospitals. Have I ever told you that?"

Yang slouched into the cheap metal folding chair, nursing an equally cheap styrofoam cup within her palm. A puffy flannel blanket was draped about her shoulders, courtesy of Ruby. Where the little reaper had managed to procure it was beyond her – the hospital staff had been rationing supplies, taxed to the breaking point by an endless stream of Vale refugees – but the blonde bruiser wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"All the lights, and the beeping. There's no color, either – the walls are as sterile as the antiseptic. And everything smells like old people and bleach." She crinkled her nose in distaste. "If whatever put you in the hospital doesn't kill you, the smell will, you know?"

Pausing, Yang peered over the lip of the cup, eyeing its contents... and her reflection within them. The cup made its way to her lips, and Yang winced as its contents - a bitter, gritty sludge, with the consistency of dishwater - oozed over her taste buds. Repressing a shudder, she forced herself to swallow the foul brew.

"But, then again, I suppose it could be worse," she croaked. Her eyes glared daggers at the cup in her hands, as if wondering how _anyone_ could stomach the black tar the night-shift nurse had affectionately dubbed 'coffee'. She twisted the cup to and fro, eyeing it like one would a failed science experiment.

"I wonder what it's like for you. Faunus, I mean." Her eyes drifted back to her teammate, and crinkled with amusement. "A hospital stay must be murder on the nose... all those chemicals, the cleaners. And don't get me _started_ on the drinks. You're lucky that you're the one who's asleep right now, otherwise you'd be the one drinking this shit."

 _'...Right? If I were here, you'd wait for me, wouldn't you?'_

The ravenette didn't answer.

Something _raw,_ something _painful,_ lanced through Yang's heart – and in a flash of anger, she crushed the styrofoam cup within her palm. With a sharp sigh, she tossed the ruined cup over her shoulder, in the general direction of the trash can. It clattered to the floor, where it joined a dozen of its brothers; none of them had made it into the garbage bin, either, and all of them were in a similar state of disrepair.

The blonde didn't seem bothered by her poor aim, though. From the second the cup had left her hand, she'd stopped caring entirely. Her eyes, and her mind, were somewhere else – somewhere far away. Somewhere she wished she could forget. "I guess I shouldn't be complaining, though. We're lucky... we made it out alive. That's more than most can say."

Yang straightened in her seat.

"We've got a room all to ourselves," she said, her voice taking on a gentler tone. Her lips twitched at the corners, rearranging into something resembling a smile. "Three hots and a cot, even if the food looks like pre-chewed cardboard. And the painkillers are top shelf - you can thank Weiss for that. Her daddy's got deep pockets, and he's one of the hospital's big donors. No one's going to give his little Snow Angel and her entourage anything less than the best."

She closed her eyes, and leaned back in her chair. The smile on her lips became more genuine – more telling.

"You'll like it, when you wake up. It's... quiet. We've got a whole legion of angry nurses outside, telling people they aren't allowed after visiting hours, so... you'll have plenty of time to read. And I'm sure we can find a few books lying around." Then, she chuckled. "All four of us under one roof. If we had bunk beds, this would be just like the one we had, back at... back at Beacon."

A precious second passed – and her smile slowly faded. Her jaw, and her shoulders, hardened. Drawing the blanket tighter about her shoulders, she held herself like a soldier, marching into battle.

Into battle she marched.

"I need to tell you something," she started. For once, the humor in her eyes was gone – and was replaced by something else. Her words came slowly, hesitantly, as though she were weighing the meaning of each one before she breathed them to life.

"Ruby's... gone, right now, but she'll be back sooner or later. Probably sooner, so we don't have much time. And I don't know if you'll want to listen, when you wake up, so... I'm gonna say it now, at least."

Yang tugged absent-mindedly at the crimson blanket, pulling the soft fabric tightly around her shoulders. Her eyes drifted from her knees, to her empty palm, to the ceiling above her... and decidedly _not_ in the direction of her partner.

She let out a slow, steady breath. "I told myself that... that what I did was for your own good. Hitting you, and... what came after that. That no matter what, I wouldn't... that I'd... be okay with whatever came next. So. I'm not gonna... apologize for that. Not for getting you out okay. I'd do anything to make sure you're okay, because you're _my_ family, too, and that's something you'll have to get used to. Like _hell_ am I gonna watch you burn." She glowered at her unconscious teammate "And I'm not gonna apologize for what came _before_ , because..."

Suddenly, the words caught in her mouth, sticking in her throat like candle wax, scalding her tongue with their passing – and she let out a frustrated grunt. "...Look at me. Acting like a... fucking schoolgirl with a crush, when the school's been blown to pieces. Trying to be... diplomatic. _Me_. This is so... stupid, the timing is fucking _terrible_ , and I..."

Yang turned, her gaze falling on the unconscious ravenette beside her... and then she moved.

The blonde bruiser was many things. _Hesitant_ was not one of them. And yet - as though she were reaching for a newborn babe, wary of her own strength, worried that the woman beside her might shatter like glass – her hand hesitantly glided across the bed sheets, and came to rest atop Blake's wrist.

The faunus' skin was pale and smooth, like alabaster – and warm, like the guilt that gnawed at Yang's belly.

"...I'm not sure I can keep that promise." Her voice was scratchy and low, like rolling gravel - and by the time she was finished speaking, it left her parted lips in little more than a whisper.

The strength seemed to drain out of her with that admission. The touch of her partner's and was suddenly cold, too cold, and her grip tightened reflexively. A shiver raced up Yang's spine, her breath caught in her throat, and then... her back straightened.

Lilac eyes hardened – and the fear within them vanished without a trace, as though it had never existed.

"When the meds finish workin' their magic... When you wake up," she murmured, "you can chew me out, if you want. Whatever you've gotta do. 'Cause..."

She lifted Blake's pale hand from the bed sheets, and pressed it to her lips.

"...right now, there's one thing I hate more than hospitals, and that's the thought of you hating me."

A minute passed, and then two. Yang sat beside her her teammate, holding her hand – and kept a silent vigil, her lilac eyes drinking in every little detail of the ravenette who'd taken her heart, committing them to memory – even though such an action was redundant. She couldn't forget Blake's face if she tried.

The cool air, the soft blankets, and the cool caress of Blake's hand within her were . It was a moment that she cherished almost as much as when she'd witnessed the dragon's demise.

Yang would have fallen asleep, right there, were it not for the sound of approaching footsteps. Someone was walking through the hallway, getting closer to their door.

"Three guesses who that is, and the first two don't count," Yang murmured, the faintest hint of a smile on her lips. Sighing tiredly, the blonde returned her hand to her lap – and was suddenly _blinded,_ as the door was thrown open, and the room was filled with searing light.

"Hey, Yang!"

Yang groaned, feebly raising her hand to shield her eyes... and her stomach threatened to upend the coffee she just drank. " _Fuck_ , Ruby. Can you... kill the lights? Please?"

"Ah, sorry! One sec." The little reaper stutter-stepped into the room, and closed the door with a soft _click_.

The piercing light vanished, but the black spots in her vision didn't. Yang blinked, rubbing at her eyes – and when she glanced up, she was greeted with the welcome sight of her little sister, hovering just inside the doorway.

"Mm. Welcome back, little sis," Yang murmured, smiling tiredly. "How's Ice Queen doing?"

Ruby let out a pleased sigh. "She's looking better – at least, the nurse said so. She'll be coming out of the ICU tonight, and she can sleep with us! With a few aura boosters and some rest, she should be up and moving in a few days!"

Yang took a second to digest that news... and then she slumped back in her seat, letting out a breath she didn't know she was holding. It seemed almost too good to be true. "...No lasting damage? No marks, or... I don't know. Anything?"

"Nope," Ruby grinned widely. Then, she brought a hand to her chin. "Well, aside from a couple screws. But those are so _cool_. And we'll be matching! See?"

Ruby tugged at the neck-line of her hoodie, and pulled down it down just far enough that Yang could see the bandages underneath. Apparently, she'd done more than just dislocate her shoulder – she'd fractured the bone, chipping it in several places. The damage to her shoulder-joint had been extensive, so the doctors had put a few screws in order to provide much-needed support.

And that was why she wasn't wearing her usual clothing; her corset hadn't been destroyed in the fighting, but by the hospital staff, who'd had to cut it away in order to patch her shoulder. It was the safer option; standard procedure, they'd said, since it meant they didn't have to move her around and risk further injury.

Yang thought her little sister would flip out over her favorite gear being trashed, but Ruby didn't seem phased at all. It wasn't the clothes themselves, so much as the color scheme that mattered to her. More than that, she'd become obsessed with her new scars – and her new additions – and had taken to showing them off, like trophies. When she'd been pulled from the operating room, and was more than a little juiced-up on painkillers, she wouldn't stop talking about how she was the 'next step in human evolution', 'half-woman, half-machine'.

They were a token of her survival, a reminder of the miracle she'd witnessed, and proof of her strength – proof that she'd done the impossible, and saved her friend from the clutches of a madwoman. And though the little reaper wouldn't say it – Yang thought that the screws were a personal reminder of Penny. It was like Ruby was carrying a little piece of her fallen friend around with her.

Banishing her thoughts, Yang rolled her eyes. "Oh, sure, it'll _look_ badass, but you're going to trigger every single metal detector you walk through. It's gonna be a hassle."

"I already do," retorted Ruby. "This is no different."

"That's because you refuse to put down _Crescent Rose_. Now, you don't have a choice."

"'Scuse me, but you seem to be mistaken," Ruby said, furrowing her brow. "Putting down my sweetheart is not an option. There's no way I'm letting her out of my sight at an airport, where people could get their grubby hands on her – and I'm _not_ shoving her in a plastic bucket. It's disrespectful, and it's filthy, and she has _standards_."

"Grubby?" Yang's lips twitched into a smile. "Weiss is rubbing off on you. One Ice Queen is bad enough, the world doesn't need a second."

Silver eyes flashed dangerously, and their owner cleared her throat.

Ruby sashayed into the room, as though she were attending a formal dinner; or, rather, she attempted to. The image was completely ruined by her state of dress, by the way her sneakers scuffed the floor with every step... and by the way she sat down, taking the empty chair beside Yang's.

To call it _sitting_ would be to commit a grave injustice. More accurately, Ruby collapsed ass-first into the aluminum chair hard and fast enough that it rocked back on its rear legs, and very nearly spilled her onto the floor.

Then, apparently deciding that the seat wasn't close enough to her sister's, the little reaper huffed, raising her chin in a dignified manner; gracefully, she reached down, wrapped her fingers beneath the seat cushion – and _scooted_ sideways. Once, twice, three times, the metal feet of her chair scraped against the linoleum.

Each time, they squealed like dying pigs.

Yang cleared her throat, trying _hard_ to silence her budding laughter. "I'm... impressed. You're so elegant, Ruby. Everything about you just _screams_ high-society."

"Fear not, sister dearest! Despite my unmatched grace, I shan't become Weiss," Ruby decreed, boldly folding her arms across her chest. "I have not the patience for lady-stilts, nor the..."

"...Propriety?" asked Yang, raising an eyebrow.

"...that sounds fancy, like something she'd – I mean, yes! That!" Ruby exclaimed, slapping her hands together. "I don't have that! Much gratitude, for, uh... for the..."

She trailed off, seemingly lost in thought – and slouched in her seat, a confused frown gracing her lips. "Hey, Yang," she grimaced, "what's 'thanks for the save' in Schnee?"

And despite herself, Yang _laughed_ – an honest laugh, relieved and excited all the same. Something about the whole situation made her feel right at home, even in the confines of the sterile, uninviting hospital. Their antics were so familiar. Her little sister's budding sense of humor, the innocent way she held herself – it was almost like Beacon had never fallen. Despite the horrors they'd endured, the sacrifices they'd made... at least Ruby was safe. Safe, and seemingly untouched by the horror of war.

That knowledge was another burden lifted.

It took a moment to get herself under control – and even then, she found it hard to stop giggling. With her good hand, she ruffled Ruby's hair. "Never change, Ruby."

The little reaper blinked, batting away Yang's hand - and her silver eyes were suddenly filled with concern. "...But what if I _want_ to? Change, I mean."

"Can't. Big sister's orders."

"Objection!" Ruby cried. Her eyes widened in shock, and she pressed a hand to her chest. "I'm team leader. My authority is... at least _three times_ bigger than yours. Maybe even _four_. Yang, this is _mutiny._ We're huntresses, not _pirates._ You can't just -"

"Objection overruled," replied Yang, not missing a beat. She flashed a triumphant grin. "Sorry, Rubes, but you've been outvoted."

Ruby slouched forward in her seat, placing her head in her hands. "Ugh. You're so mean."

"...and that's why I'm such a good big sister," Yang added, with a wink. She looped her arm over Ruby's shoudler and pulled the little reaper into a blanket-reinforced side-hug. "I have to look out for you _and_ jerk your chain. It's in the job description."

Ruby let out a surprised _eep_ , and made a show of trying to free herself. After a good ten seconds of playful struggling, Ruby surrendered, sighing - and burrowed her head further into her big sister's shoulder, nuzzling into the blanket in a very cat-like fashion.

"...Yeah. You really are," she murmured, her voice muffled by the thick flannel.

And as much as Yang enjoyed the compliment – as wonderful as it made her feel inside - something about those words was odd. It wasn't like Ruby to just give in during their play-fights, either; normally, she'd spout something or other about injustice and break away, just before declaring vengeance. And as much as she loved hugs, she _hated_ being coddled.

The blonde raised an eyebrow, and sought out her little sister's eyes... which were conveniently buried in her shoulder.

"...Something on your mind, Rubes?"

In response, Ruby began tugging at the strings of her hoodie – and Yang took that as a resounding 'yes'.

The ravenette was terrible when it came to talking to other people; to call her socially awkward would be an understatement. Her sense of humor was a little... out there, and she was terrible at picking up on non-verbal cues. Yang was, from what she'd seen, the sole exception. They'd grown up together, after all; it was only natural that Ruby was able to keep pace with her.

And the reverse was also true. Yang had known Ruby since before she could walk. She knew her mannerisms, her little quirks – and in particular, she knew when Ruby was hiding something. The little reaper was _terrible_ at keeping secrets, and couldn't lie to save her life. When something was on her mind, she'd start fidgeting. Her hands looked for something to do... and in this case, it was playing with the string of her hoodie.

"It's..." Ruby began. She looked up - over at Blake, sleeping beneath the covers on the hospital bed – and then at Yang, before her eyes settled on the blonde's lap. Then, she bit her lip, and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"Umm... I know it's... Would you mind if I...?"

Yang blinked – and then, she nodded, though she was still a little confused. "Oh. Yeah, sure. You don't have to ask permission, y'know."

Ruby sighed in relief – and then dropped her head down into Yang's lap, using her big sister's thigh as a makeshift pillow. It was a tight fit; the chairs beneath them were small, only designed to house one apiece, and they weren't quite wide enough to sprawl out on. Still, though, the little reaper made it work.

And Yang's fingers wove themselves through Ruby's hair, parting it like the blades of a comb.

"We haven't done this, since... what, Signal?" Yang murmured, marveling at the softness of her little sister's hair. Her raven locks – the same shade as Blake's – were shorter, but straighter, as light as silk and slightly rough at the tips, like bristles on a fine brush. And she didn't even take _care_ of it. "I thought you didn't like this kinda thing anymore."

Ruby crooned into Yang's fingers – and peeked up at her big sister between her parted bangs, smiling sheepishly. "Actually, I've... missed it a lot. It feels... nice, you know? But people already look down on me for being younger, so..."

"Oh." Any other time, she might have teased Ruby – but after the events of the last few days, she couldn't bring herself to. Instead, Yang relaxed and gave her little sister a reassuring smile, while her fingers continued their tender work. "It's all good, Rubes."

Smiling sheepishly, Ruby nuzzled into her big sister's hand. Her fingers skittered along the drawstrings of her hoodie, winding them into knots and unwinding them with an almost mechanical precision. It was almost to watch; the knots seemed to tie themselves of their own accord, complex and beautiful, an extension of the girl who made them.

An eternity passed – and Ruby sighed. "Yeah. Something's bothering me, a little." Her fingers ceased their rapid movement. "It's been almost two days, and... I still can't find Shirou. It's like he's vanished. Uncle Qrow's drinking a little more than usual, so I know something's going on, but he won't tell me what it is, and..."

And then – she furrowed her brow.

Yang's searched the little reaper's expression, just for a moment – and then she hummed.

"...It's JNPR, isn't it?"

Ruby's silver eyes widened to the size of dinner plates – and then she flinched, as her big sister flicked her forehead. "Ruby, come on. I know you. You only get like this when someone else is in trouble. Blake's safe and sound, Weiss will be... which only leaves the others. And you were gone for, like, an hour. I figured you'd stop by their room, pay them a visit."

Ruby's cheeks reddened with embarrassment. "I can't hide anything from you, can I?"

"Nope," Yang replied, a smug grin plastered on her face. "I know you too well. Comes with the territory."

Ruby gave her a matching smile – but it didn't quite meet her eyes. And soon, even her smile faltered. "...Pyrrha's playing mom, trying to keep everyone together, even after everything. And Jaune is... well, he's really quiet. Pyrrha says he blames himself."

Yang winced, suddenly feeling twice her age. "...That sounds like Jaune. And Nora? How's she holding up?"

Ruby hesitated – and that told Yang everything she needed to know. "That bad, huh?"

"She's..." Ruby bit her lip, and her silver eyes flashed with worry. "...it's like she's done a one-eighty. I've never heard her be so... _quiet_. She wouldn't even say hello when I was there. Pyrrha says that she spends all day staring at her hands, and when she's not doing that, she's shooting death-glares at Jaune."

" _Jaune_?" Yang hissed, her eyes widening in shock. "Why's she got him in her sights?"

"Well, he wasn't with them during the fighting, and he's, you know, team leader," Ruby said, hesitantly. "Pyrrha said it wasn't his fault – something about him being held back from the battle - but he's not sticking up for himself, and Nora's walking all over him."

A note of frustration crept into her voice – and her hands went white-knuckle around her hoodie strings. "They're all really tense, and... it's so... _complicated_. I don't know what's going on, and I don't know what to _do._ "

Yang's hand settled on her little sister's, and when she spoke, her voice was oddly quiet. "There's not much you can do, sis. Death's never easy."

"I know." The little reaper's eyes dipped – and then hardened, into a glare as sharp as her scythe. "I just... If something's wrong, I want to fix it, like my sweetheart."

"Yeah." But unlike her sister, whose gaze had drifted to _Crescent Rose_ – collapsed into its rifle variant and stored in a locker beside the doorway – Yang's went in a different direction: towards the hospital bed and its sleeping occupant, not three feet away.

"...I don't care how long it takes." Ruby's hand clenched into a fist. "I'm gonna find a way to make everything better. No one else is gonna die. No one else is gonna get hurt. Not on my watch."

The fury in her Ruby's voice was shocking. But what was even more shocking was her _conviction_. Her voice was that of a fifteen-year-old girl, but her words... they belonged to someone much older, someone worn and jaded.

People react differently to stress; the greater the stress, the greater the reaction. Yang thought she'd sheltered her little sister from the worst of the fighting, but... maybe that was her _own_ way of coping. The blonde swallowed thickly – because she realized that she'd been wrong.

Ruby _had_ been changed by the battle. She hadn't just lost her friends... she'd lost her _innocence_.

And the look in her silver eyes – the emotion buried within them, masked by the rage - chilled Yang to the bone. So much that she couldn't help but stare, a sense of dread growing in her breast. A moment passed in silence, and Ruby glanced up at Yang. Something in the blonde's expression must have given her thoughts away, because her little sister's expression turned worried.

"...You're looking at me kinda funny, Yang. Is there something on my face?"

The hand running through Ruby's hair shifted – and began cupping her cheek instead. "...Ruby. None of this is your fault. It's Cinder's. You know that, right?"

Ruby returned Yang's look - and then glanced away, unwilling to meet her sister's eyes. Her expression faltered, peeling away until nothing else remained. It was... cold, eerie, like that of a mannequin. Even her silver eyes seemed to lose their luster.

"Oh, Ruby," she murmured.

"Don't lecture me," Ruby replied, quietly – yet firmly. Her gaze sharpened, and she crossed her arms beneath her chest. "Uncle Qrow already did. I don't get what you guys are so upset about."

 _'And that's probably why he's drinking more,'_ thought Yang, with a wince. But as tempting as it was, she didn't voice those thoughts aloud. Whatever was going on in Ruby's head, she needed support, not emotional backlash. She paused, searching for the words she wanted to use... but Ruby didn't get her the chance to speak.

"And... I, uh," Ruby pursed her lips, "I know I'm not really best person to give health advice, 'cause I eat too many cookies, and I know what you're going through isn't..."

After a moment, she huffed, and closed her eyes. "Look. Yang, you take care of me better than anyone else, and I love you for it, but you've really got to take care of yourself first."

"I'm doing fine," Yang replied, waving her hand dismissively. "Don't change the subject. This is serious, Rubes."

"So am I." Ruby stared pointedly up at her sister, with a no-nonsense expression. It was something she'd adopted from Weiss, over the course of the year they'd spent together – and she used it as effectively as any weapon. "It's been a day and a half since we got here, and I haven't seen you eat any real food. Just... coffee, lots of it."

"Tried," replied Yang, shrugging. "Hospital food tastes like shit."

"It's not that bad. And I haven't seen you sleep, either." Ruby's eyes narrowed, accusingly.

"Just because you haven't seen me sleep, doesn't mean-"

" _Yang_ ," Ruby snapped. Despite their difference in height, and despite the fact that Ruby was using her knees as a headrest, she suddenly felt like the little reaper towered over her. "Don't play dumb. I might be the younger sister, but I'm not stupid. I mean... look in a mirror, for crying out loud! You still haven't changed, and you haven't even showered!"

"...I haven't?"

Yang paused, her train of thought interrupted. She blinked – once, then twice – and stared down at Ruby, confused. Then, she peeled back the blanket from her shoulder - noticing for the first time that it was _sticking_ to her skin - and feasted her eyes on a set of dirty, bloodstained clothes. A potent smell, somewhere between blood, ash, burnt coffee and rot, scalded her nose. Her eyes began to water.

"Oh. _Wow_ ," she gasped, tugging the blanket taught about her shoulders. Even still, the smell lingered in the air like a bad hangover, making her head pound. "You... _ugh_. You aren't kidding."

Ruby nodded – and then rolled sideways. Her shoes squeaked as they hit the tile floor – and she stood, hands on her hips, fixing Yang with a serious look.

"No, I'm not. You look like a Spruce Willis extra, and you, uh... you kinda smell like Zwei." Ruby's brow furrowed. "But it doesn't bother me, 'cause I love Zwei. And besides, nasal fatigue is a thing – I stopped smelling you after the first... thirty seconds, maybe. But you still need to get out of those clothes, and take a shower. _Now_. Team leader's orders."

A foreboding feeling crept into her gut. She wanted to say no – no, she needed to stay at Blake's bedside; no, she didn't want to shower. Frustration and a hint of anger blossomed in her heart, for a reason she couldnt quite explain, and they compelled her to act, to fight back. She locked eyes with Ruby – and the little reaper met her gaze evenly, her expression calm and controlled.

Then, Yang glanced away.

She couldn't say no. Not to Ruby, who'd already been through so much – who was just looking out for her, as Yang had done for her so many times before. Biting back a curse, Yang hobbled to her feet and dropped the blanket in a pile on the floor.

"...Alright, _fine_ ," Yang grumbled. Ignoring Ruby's concerned eyes, she staggered over to their shared bathroom, opened the door – and paused.

"Back in a few. The we can grab dinner or something, if it'll get you off my back," she said. Then, she slipped inside, and shut the door a little harder than necessary.

The air seemed... colder. The room, quieter. Perhaps it was the absence of Blake, or the absence of the blanket she'd grown so fond of. Yang took a step forward, then two – and her bare feet padded on the cool tile, a sensation like walking on ice cubes. She must have slipped out of her boots at some point, but for the life of her, she couldn't remember when she'd done it.

She approached the sink, reached for the faucet – and stared.

The face in the mirror was... unfamiliar. Alien. Lilac eyes were bloodshot, and sunken with fatigue. Soot, streaked with sweat and fingerprints, caked a face that was too gaunt to be called pretty. Blonde hair, matted and filthy, hung about her shoulders like a rat's nest. She looked... thin. Ragged.

Frail.

Her left arm, as disgusting as her face, was criss-crossed by pink scars... scars that wrapped around the limb from wrist to elbow, like thorns on a rose. More than physical marks, they were reminders – jarring reminders of beacon, of the ravens, and of everything they'd lost.

And yet, alongside the pain, they would fade with time; her Aura would see to that. One day, they might even look beautiful. She might take pride in them, like Ruby did in her own scars; each one would be a story she could tell, a story of triumph over impossible odds.

But not all scars were pretty... and there were some injuries that even Aura couldn't heal. Her right arm, missing from the elbow down, one such injury.

It was a pain she'd never forget, a story she knew she'd never enjoy telling. It was her greatest failure... and so she refused to look at it, content with pretending the injury didn't exist, if for but a moment.

Yang forced her roving eyes to cease their torturous movement – and she glanced down, away from the specter in the mirror, and towards her jacket, the first obstacle in her path. The sense of foreboding she'd felt earlier - the fear, the hesitation – reared its ugly head. Shaking her head, she fought against it, and shut her eyes for a bit longer than a standard blink.

Taking a slow breath, she reached for the first button, and tried to undo it.

Her fingers slipped.

She stared at her hand, a hand that was scraped raw, calloused and bloodied, a hand that was suddenly _trembling_... and she tried again.

And again.

And again.

Time passed, and Yang lost all sense of it, consumed as she was in her struggle. Seconds turned to minutes. Her fingers fumbled with the button of her jacket, trying and failing to find purchase on the fabric.

It was a simple task, something that shouldn't have given her trouble. But her fingers, they wouldn't stop shaking. _Why_ wouldn't they stop shaking? Again, her fingers fumbled with the first button, one among several – and her eyes started to burn. She wanted to scream, to shout, to punch something, to... to...

"Here. Let me."

Yang nearly jumped as a hand touched her shoulder. Glancing quickly into the mirror, she realized that the door behind her was wide open... and if her little sister's concerned expression was anything to go by, she'd seen everything.

"Ruby, what are you -"

"I'm gonna be the big sister now," she interrupted, giving Yang a reassuring smile. "Just... relax, okay? For a little while."

Before she could protest, Ruby stepped forward – and wrapped her thin arms around the blonde's stomach. A precious second passed, then two, and the last of her buttons were undone. Then, hands tugged at the lapel of her jacket – and it was tugged loose, drawn back over the blonde's shoulders.

"Ruby, you... you don't have to do this. I can get it myself," she insisted, glaring at her little sister's reflection in the mirror.

But her heart wasn't in it. She never could say no to those silver eyes. And judging by Ruby's satisfied expression, she knew it, too.

The little reaper stepped around her, not saying a word, and walked towards the nearby shower. Leaning over the ledge, brushing the curtain aside, her fingers wrapped around the shower dial – and twisted it, making the aged metal squeak. Then, water sprayed from the faucet, misting up the shower walls with a pleasant hiss.

Ruby straightened, placing her hands on her hips. Her eyes roved the room – and then settled on Yang, taking in the blonde's haggard appearance.

"I'll be back in a minute," she said, quietly. "Gotta grab some towels. In the meantime, get undressed and get in. If you need anything, call me."

She brushed past Yang, and stepped out of the room – and the blonde was suddenly alone once more.

Mechanically, the blonde obeyed. Her body moved on autopilot, and her remaining clothes were discarded, tossed in a careless pile on the floor. In contrast to the whitewashed tile, her garments looked more like dirty rags than anything else, but Yang hardly noticed - because her attention was captivated by something else entirely.

The shower.

It was an old model, made of cream-colored plastic. As far as showers went, it was actually quite spacious; it was bordered by a cube of plexiglass, four or five feet across and ceiling-high, with a waist-high swinging door permitting entry. Hot steam billowed from the crack between the curtain and the wall, brushing pleasantly against her skin – and Yang found herself walking towards it.

But the sight of bothered her, filling her heart with unease... because the height of the door, the presence of a plastic handhold on the wall, and the easy-access seating on the other side of the glass confirmed her suspicions.

It was a shower for the handicapped.

Taking in a shuddering breath, Yang raised her hand. Her fingers went knuckle-white on the door handle – but the chill of the tile floor beneath her toes, and the promise of a hot shower, drove her forward.

The door opened with a creak.

Yang sat down on the edge of the basin, just within reach of the spray. Piping hot water washed over her, caressing her scalp, her ears, her shoulders; it soaked into her tangled locks and dripped to the floor, scorching away the grime and loosening the tension in her stiff muscles.

She slumped sideways, leaning against the wall like a puppet with its strings cut... and her gaze settled listlessly on the wall.

An errant strand of hair made it into her eyes. Flinching, the blonde raised a hand, brushing it away - and when she drew it back, it was stained black with mud. Yang stared down at her hand, and then at the water pooling by her feet. It was no longer clear, but dark – dark like her mud-caked hand, dark like her thoughts, a mix of dirt, dust, and blood. _Whose_ blood, exactly, she wasn't sure.

The door opened again, and this time, Yang heard it. She heard footsteps on the tile, too, as someone approached. She heard a creak - as one of the chairs from outside was set down on the bathroom floor, beside the shower.

And she stiffened as a warm washcloth, soft and soapy, began rubbing a slow circle across across her scraped and scarred shoulders. The contact _stung,_ like bristles being dragged across an open wound – but the pain quickly faded, and in its place resided something else.

"Ruby..." Yang mumbled. She glanced over her shoulder – and was drowning in a pair of silver eyes.

"Shush." Her tone was heavy; her gaze was light. "Leader's orders."

Yang opened her mouth to protest – but she found that she couldn't. Her throat was suddenly tight, and her eyes were burning again. So she kept her back turned, and stared at the wall, sitting ramrod straight, willing herself to remain silent.

As soft hands lathered her hair with soap, she realized it was a losing battle.

The blonde bruiser hadn't cut her hair in years. Why would she? It was her pride and joy, her deepest expression of who she was: wild, bright, untamed. Washing it was a ritual, a daily rite, and so Yang always handled it herself. She'd never trusted it to a barber, nor to her friends, or... anyone, really. Not since Summer passed. Because, unlike her Super-Mom, no one else could get it _right._

But even if she had no experience working with longer hair, Ruby's hands were gentle. Gentle, as they danced along her scalp, working the cheap hospital soap into a lather - gentle, as they brushed away the grime.

And, as Yang stared at the wall in front of her, she felt her breath catch. Because beneath the streaks of mud, within the soapy sheen of water sprayed across it... she made out the barest reflection of her little sister.

Dark hair, cropped short. Silver eyes. A calm smile – and a gentle voice. Slouched at the side of the tub, running fingers through her hair.

"You don't have to be strong all the time, you know," she whispered. "It's okay. We're okay."

Just like Summer.

Her breath hitched. She sniffled. And then -

-and then, the tears finally came.

She didn't know how long she'd been holding them in, how long she'd been trying to shunt them away, but once the floodgates were open, they wouldn't stop. She brought a hand to her mouth, trying to cover her lips, and when _that_ failed, she bit down on her closed fist, trying not to cry, trying - trying to _hide_ it, before Ruby – before... before she...

" _Yang_?" Ruby hissed, panicking. "Am I doing something wrong? I'm doing something wrong, aren't I? I'm... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you cry!"

The little reaper ran a soapy hand through her hair. "...I'm no good at being the big sister. Not like you. I – I really am sorry," she mumbled, bowing her head.

And at her words, Yang stopped fighting.

She leaned back against Ruby, her chest heaving, tears streaking down her cheeks – sobbing quietly. Soap and tears and dirty water soaked into Ruby's hoodie, staining the crimson fabric a dozen shades darker, but the little reaper didn't complain. Her arms wrapped around Yang's stomach and pulled her close, holding her tightly as she let her demons go in the only way she could.

First went her fear – her fear of failure. Her fear of facing life without an arm, wondering if she'd ever be a huntress again. Her fear of weakness, of being too weak to protect the people she swore she would... and her fear of rejection, at the hands of the person she'd loved for the last year.

Then went the anger. Anger at Adam, at Cinder... at herself. For failing Weiss, Blake, and now Ruby. The same Ruby who was forced to babysit her. Anger, for crying when she promised herself that she wouldn't. Anger that kept her moving, kept her focused – and made her want to scream.

Then went her sorrow; the knowledge that she'd failed Ruby, that their home had been destroyed. Her sorrow, that her _team_ had been destroyed. That their lives - everything they'd known - had been shattered into tiny pieces.

Like the dirt that stained her, her troubles disappeared beneath the spray. And in their absence came a pleasant numbness. A relief, of sorts. Because after everything was said and done, she was safe. Alive. Warm... and clean. Relief: because through it all, she wasn't alone. Relief, because she was with her family.

And that made all the difference in the world.

The two sisters – blonde and black, pale and tanned, clothed and naked, whole and fractured, opposites in every way - sat like that for a while, beneath the spray.

Time seemed to ebb and flow, as did Yang's tears... until, eventually, she had no more to shed. Her sobbing died away, her nose ceased its running – and the warmth of the water, of her little sister at her back, began to blend together.

Yang's eyes drifted shut, for the third and final time.

The faucet creaked. The water stilled. Something wrapped around her, something... warm. Soft. Dry.

And the next thing she knew, she was lying in her bed. She knew it had to be hers – the sheets were cool, and stiff from disuse. However, the warmth from before remained; a pair of arms was still wrapped around her stomach, and someone's breathing, slow and light, tickled her ears.

"Hey, Ruby," she mumbled, exhaustion slurring her speech.

"Yeah?" A voice answered. Though she couldn't see those lips move, she could hear them smiling softly.

"...I love you. So much."

There was the sound of fabric rustling – and the grip around her stomach tightened.

"I love you too, Yang."

* * *

 **[Author's Note – Fell the Tempest]**

 **[Hello Everyone]:** Thanks for reading this chapter. Hope you enjoyed it! This is a huge style-change from the last few chapters, with more dialogue and hopefully 'organic' world-building. I hope it meets your expectations and helps shed a little light on the world of Remnant, without coming across as too forced. Lots of drama, relationship-building, and the beginnings of recovery for everyone involved.

 **[Challenges]:** So, this chapter had its fair share of challenges.

The first challenge was trying to make world-building as organic as possible; I wanted to set the scene, both for Shirou (who is a foreigner in a strange land) and for you readers, which was an even bigger challenge. Many reviewers have said they've never seen RWBY before. I'm hoping that chapter provides a decent overview of what the world is like, of the events that are occurring and the conflicts brewing on the horizon.

The second was dealing with time constraints. I'm working on going into law enforcement and had a ten-day recertification course that ate up most of my free time this month, in addition to working full time and working on background packets for agencies. I know this chapter came a little late, but at 17k words, there's a lot of content in here that I hope will sate your thirst for an update.

 **[Weiss]:** I know that many of you were looking forward to Weiss making an appearance - and believe me, I want to write her in - but she just got her chest cavity smashed by a Paladin. She needs a little surgery, down-time, and pain-killers before she's going to be ready to get in on the action. Don't worry, she'll make an appearance in the next chapter or two. Have faith!

 **[Story Themes and Focus]:** The focus of the story is on the relationships between the characters, and how they all grow and change when confronted with a new and ever-changing world, and from here on out it's going to star Shirou and Team RWBY. There will be action scenes - I mean, the first five chapters were an action scene, so you can expect more of that - but it's a Drama / Friendship story for a reason.

For those of you eager to find out more about Team JNPR, and other members of the supporting cast: they're going to make appearances, but they aren't the focus of the writing and they won't be. I'm projecting this story to end up at about 300k words, possibly more, and if I tried to illustrate the lives of so many people, the story would lose focus and drag on forever. That's the last thing I want to do.

 **[Cover Art Contest]:** At this point, I've received a couple really awesome submissions for the cover art contest, but I want to wait until there are more entries before deciding on a winner. Keep them coming! **knightoblivion** is co-judging, so feel free to tell him how awesome he is if you want your submission to score some bonus points.

 **[Rate and Review]:** If you have any comments, commitments, compliments, commiserations or compensation, feel free to leave a review. I'll try to get back to you as soon as I can.

 **[Also, Bonus]:** Attached below is my first attempt at an Omake. Thought you readers might enjoy it. Feel free to let me know what you think in the reviews.

* * *

 **[Omake: Shirou's Interrogation, AKA "Why Shirou Fears His Fans"]**

Qrow sighed theatrically.

"...So, let me see if I've got this right. You're a soldier from another world, or... _something_ , dragged to Remnant by _Weiss Schnee_ of all people, like something out of a bad fantasy romance. True to form, you save her from a burning tower, fending off the witch - and then, you decide to go the extra mile and slay a fucking _Elder Drake_. Not only do you succeed, but the collateral damage from your attack managed to reduce one of Vale's most fortified locations to scorched earth. Along with my entire stash of Woodshire Reserve."

"So that's what caused the secondary explosion..." Shirou mused. He scratched at his chin, and eyed the flask in Qrow's hand speculatively. "You really do drink a lot. Are you sure you don't want to take credit for slaying the dragon? This 'fan club' business... I'd rather do without it."

"If you had to put up with Winter and Jim-Jam, you'd drink a lot, too," he said, scowling. "But don't sidestep this, Shirou. You destroyed Beacon. What the _hell_ were you thinking?"

"It was already destroyed when I arrived," Shirou deadpanned.

"Ruined, yes. A glass _wasteland_ , no." Qrow gripped the bridge of his nose. "Hell, I don't know if it was even _insured_. Does a laser beam from an extra-dimensiona _l jackass_ qualify as an 'act of God?'"

"It was that or let the dragon rampage," the Counter Guardian replied, in a disinterested tone. "And I didn't kill it with a laser beam – I killed it with a sword."

Qrow's glare turned _searing_.

"Bullshit. This is - this is all _bullshit_. What kind of sword _glows_? What kind of sword can kill a dragon that big in _one swing_? A _magic_ sword?" Qrow scoffed - and as Shirou tensed, his scoff turned to a snarl. "Spare me. Magic-fuckin'-sword. _Bullshit_. What did you do, pull it out of a hat, like a fuckin' _rabbit_?"

Shirou sighed, exasparated - and brought a hand to his brow, trying to massage away his sudden headache. "I've said it once – all of this can be corroborated. If you don't believe me, check with any witnesses. I'm sure there were several; like you said, our fight wasn't exactly _discrete_."

Qrow stilled - and pursed his lips, his anger fading as he considered Shirou's reply. No one in their right mind would rely on eye-witness testimony, or claim such a ridiculous tale was truth - not unless it was.

"Fuck," he said, simply. Shirou nodded, sympathetically. "Must have been a big sword."

He brought his flask to his lips, taking another swig -

\- "It was. Ask Yang - she got an eye-full." -

\- and choked.

The two men stared at each other for a moment – and then Qrow set his flask down on the end table. It was a slow, controlled motion, and throughout it his eyes never left Shirou's.

"You have tested my sanity. You have tested my patience. And, apparently, you've tested my _niece_."

Shirou blinked, stunned to silence - too stunned to protest his innocence.

"And, on that note," Qrow said, calmly, "I'm going to walk out of here, before I kill you until you die."

The rogue threw himself out of his chair, stalked out of the room, threw open the sliding door... and slammed it behind him. How anyone could accomplish such a feat - slamming a magnetically-locked, automated, _handle-less_ sliding door - was beyond Shirou's comprehension. Then again, the world he now resided in did possess a different set of rules. Perhaps, inadvertently, Qrow had demonstrated one of them?

Anger held power, it seemed. But anger also corrupted - and Qrow's tone had _definitely_ rubbed Shirou the wrong way.

"...Rabbit from a hat," he scoffed. "What nonsense." Leaning back against the windowsill, the Counter Guardian ran a hand through his hair, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them, he noticed something he hadn't before – a pile of fabric sitting on the end table beside his bed.

Qrow must have left some spare clothes for him, he reasoned, though the rogue's taste was... questionable, to say the least. Black jeans, embroidered with chains and crosses... a red leather jacket, its shoulders decorated with steel spikes... a matching belt, and... the hell?

 _A dog collar?_

The sight of the clothing made Shirou cringe, for two distinct reasons.

The ensemble belonged at a punk rock concert, not on a battlefield. But he'd seen other fighters dressed similarly, through the window of his hospital room... which meant that these clothes might be the norm, and there might not be others available.

And, in addition... leather was easily reinforced, to a much greater degree than cheap cotton. With proper application of prana, it would be strong enough to stop bullets and deflect sword strikes.

For the sake of practicality, and to avoid an intern-dimensional incident... Shirou knew he would have to _endure_.

With practiced efficiency, he stripped out of his hospital garb, taking great care not to agitate his injured limbs. Stepping into the jeans, he was pleasantly surprised to find that they fit perfectly. Clothes of mortal make seldom fit him, due to his unusual height and broad shoulders - not unless they were tailor-made.

Shrugging his shoulders, slipping the jacket about his frame, he blinked, noticing something else - a pair of sunglasses and a black beret, where the jacket had once been. Likely, they were buried underneath the fabric, and had simply escaped his notice.

There was a note within the beret, written in pen. "From A Fan", in a woman's loopy handwriting, punctuated with a heart.

Collar in one hand, Shirou reached for the note - and blinked, in surprised, when his hands wrapped around something within it.

Something fluffy, soft, and... long.

"...Huh."

Out of reflex, he tugged - and that something - or rather, _someone_ \- emerged from the hat. Someone with pale skin, framed by straight brown hair that hung just below her shoulders. Someone whose brown eyes were tinted with admiration - and a hint of something else, something much more needy.

Someone with _bunny ears_ situated atop her head.

Someone who was _naked_.

"Hey. N-nice to meet you, Shirou. M-my name's Velvet," she stammered, blushing furiously. "Fancy meeting you here."

Something in Shirou's brain sputtered and died. The pistons within his mind fired and whined - and short-circuited. Gears ground to a halt, as they desperately tried to process the sight in front of him. Sunset eyes flickered to the girl in his arms, to the note she held in her hand, to the beret, to the _doorway_ \- and then back to her.

"...Er..." She began, fidgeting nervously.

Shirou blinked.

"I, uh... I got these clothes for you," she mumbled. "Coco said they'd bring out your physique. The're a snug fit, right? I, ah, I might have measured you while you slept - well, _most_ of you. I'm not that kind of girl. I just wanted to make sure you'd look good in them - which you do."

Shirou blinked again.

"Oh," she said, glancing down at the contents of his other hand. "Y-yeah. Well, everything is for you, except the collar - that's for me."

Ignoring the way his gaze widened in horror, she glanced down at exposed chest, and her eyes smoldered. Her gaze dipped, tracing the valley of his abdomen, lingering on the taught, corded muscle there - and she licked her lips.

Her blushing intensified as her gaze dipped lower still.

"So... how big is it, really?"

Shirou blinked, for a third and final time...

...and slowly lowered Velvet Scarletina back into the hat.


	7. Chapter 7: Trial By Fire

**[Chapter Seven: Trial By Fire]**

Weiss Schnee was used to being the center of attention.

For as long as she could remember, curious eyes had always followed in her wake. The eyes of servants, tutors, and well-wishers, eager to please; the eyes of businessmen, eager to cut a deal, hungry for the vast resources that her position offered her. The eyes of her father, waiting for her to make her next mistake.

Eyes, circling her like vultures, waited for her to drop... eyes to which she owed an unspoken allegiance.

For Weiss Schnee, the act of lowering her guard was a risk. After all, the Schnee Empire had a lot of enemies, and it went without saying that she was the weak link in her family's chain. Young, still untrained, and lacking the insulation of her family's manor, she was a target. And by extension, her image, her reputation, needed to be maintained; to publicly show weakness – to appear anything less than immaculately composed, strong, and cold, in the eyes of the world - was to permit a chink in her armor.

But in the aftermath of the school's destruction, that had changed, somewhat.

Dirty, sweaty bodies surrounded her on all sides; and those same eyes roved, endlessly searching. However, they easily overlooked the pale girl in their midst, whose shredded combat attire had been traded in for a set of nondescript hospital scrubs and a thick woolen coat, and whose hair was concealed beneath a knit cap. Great at staving off the chill, and greater still at concealing her identity.

Even Weiss herself barely recognized her own reflection. In the hustle and bustle of the refugee camp, sitting in the community mess, she was just one face among many - just one more of the invasion's wounded children, with their bandaged limbs and damaged gear. Few, if any, spared her more than a passing glance, and those few were quickly repelled by her blonde teammate's glares.

Which meant that Weiss was _free_.

For the first time in her whole life, she was free – free from the hungry eyes, free from her father's expectations, free from the trappings of society and the burdens of her station. Free to relax, let her hair down, and indulge. For once, she could consciously make bad decisions and not have to worry about her family's enemies.

Every cloud had its silver linings, and she was going to enjoy this one. Even if she was confined to a wheelchair for the near future, she was still more free than she'd ever been – and she was going to abuse the hell out of it.

Weiss Schnee's standards of _abuse_ , however, were a little... _odd_.

"I can't believe you're actually eating that... that _stuff,_ " Yang said, grimacing. _"_ And this is, what, your third bowl? Whatever happened to ' _I'll have a small salad_ '? _"_

Weiss blinked, glancing down at the bowl in front of her - and the murky soup it contained. It was red and brown, with strips of unknown meat, far too much butter, little bits of green things, and chunks that vaguely resembled potatoes... or perhaps carrots. Or fingers. It was anyone's guess, really.

The heiress lowered her spoon. "...You're complaining about my decision to eat unhealthy food? You?"  
 _  
_Yang shook her head. _"_ No, no. Not at all. I mean, I'm glad you're starting to live a little, but – but if you wanted to change things up, there are _way_ better ways to do it. Even Pumpkin Pete's Marshmallow Flakes would be an improvement. Do you have _any_ idea what's in that gruel?"

Weiss brought another spoonful to her lips. Yang watched, with an air of morbid curiosity about her, as the heiress popped it in her mouth – and she shivered a little.

"It's calorically dense, which makes for faster healing. And it isn't that bad tasting, contrary to what you might believe," Weiss said. At least, that's what it sounded like; her mouth was a tad full at the time.

"Yes. Yes, it is," Yang insisted. Her eyes flickered to Weiss' bowl, and her lips curled in distaste. "It tastes like... like if I stripped the tires off of Bumblebee, right? And if I put them in a blender with salt, butter, and enough chicken stock to feed an Ursa. Pretty sure not even Qrow could stomach this slop, and his idea of a balanced breakfast is bottom-shelf whiskey."

Weiss nodded thoughtfully, weighing Yang's eloquent opinion against the feedback her taste buds were providing.

"...What do you think, Ruby?" She asked, glancing in the little reaper's direction.

Ruby was sitting across the table from her, picking at her food disinterestedly, her half-lidded eyes focusing on the stump where Yang's arm used to be. When her name was spoken, she blinked, as though waking from a dream – and she glanced up, meeting Weiss' concerned gaze with one of her own.

She smiled sheepishly. "Mm. Maybe she's right. Just a little." A short, awkward laugh left her lips, and died as soon as it did.

Weiss scrutinized Ruby for a moment, searching her leader's face for some hint of what she was thinking – and found it.

"Ruby," sighed Weiss. "What did we just talk about this morning?"

Ruby averted her gaze, sighing dejectedly. "That there's no need to... beat myself up over your injuries. Or Yang's. But Weiss, you know that I-..."

Ruby's pleading died before it left her lips, courtesy of a sharp look from her partner. "Yang doesn't blame you for what happened, and I don't either. Fact is, we're still alive. That's better than most can say, and at the end of the day, that's all we can ask for."

"But you _should_ ask for more," Ruby stressed. "I shouldn't have lost track of you in the first place. If I'd have been there -"

"Ruby. Enough." Weiss said, leaning back in her seat. She toyed with the spoon in her hand, ignoring the way Ruby's eyes drifted towards her sling – towards the gauze that bound her chest, peeking out beneath the lip of her coat – and towards the wheelchair she sat in. "This injury is my own fault, because I _chose_ to fight that Paladin and protect my friends, knowing that I could get hurt. Are you saying I should regret that choice? Are you saying that Yang shouldn't have tried saving Blake? Are you saying I shouldn't have protected Blake and the others?"

"N-no, of course not," Ruby protested, weakly, raising up her hands. "It's just... you shouldn't have had to make that choice in the first place."

Weiss shook her head, patiently. "The world doesn't work like that, Ruby. And spending every waking moment worrying about things that may have happened, wallowing in guilt because of something you could have done better, will serve no purpose other than to distract you from your present duties as a leader. And that has the potential to be more detrimental to the team's well-being than a few broken bones and a hospital stay."

In the silence that followed, Weiss set down her fork. "I signed up for this lifestyle," she began. "I knew the risks at that time and I know them now. Even so, I am here. Because I believe the risks, they're worth the reward." She placed her hand in her lap, and straightened her back even more – if such a thing were possible. "And that's also why I'm your partner, and why I'm on this team. I believe that my faith in you is well-placed. It's your responsibility to believe that, too. Keep your eyes forward, and don't worry about what you can't control. The rest will come with time."

Ruby and Yang exchanged a pointed look – and the latter chuckled.

"...Wow, Ice Queen," Yang said, grinning wryly. "Not only do I totally agree with you... but for a minute there, you sounded kinda like Ozpin. Guess you have been learning some new material at Beacon."

"Pragmatism," Weiss said, shrugging. "One of the few things I can actually thank my father for. Additionally – Ruby, self-pity doesn't become you. You need to cheer up."

"...So you're going to lecture me until I feel better?" Ruby asked, hesitantly. "You know, that's not a very good mood-booster."

Weiss nodded. "It's not the most effective form of attitude adjustment, but I've only got one arm to work with for the next few days. When I'm better, I'll _show_ you that I can take care of myself, so you'll have nothing to worry about. In the meantime, I'll just remind you that you're being dense."

"Why wait?" asked Yang, not missing a beat. She examined Weiss' sling with a critical eye. "You're short an arm. I've got a spare. Teamwork makes the dream work, right?"

"...What?" Ruby asked, blinking owlishly. "I'm – wait, you're..."

"You know, Yang - for once, I think you're on to something." Weiss straightened her back, and fixed her confused team leader with a steely glare. "I propose a temporary alliance, with the goal of making Ruby feel better through the use of corporal punishment. Make no mistake, this is not a contract to enter into lightly. Beatings will continue until morale improves."

The little reaper's eyes widened comically. She sputtered for a moment, wilting under the solemn gazes of her teammates, and then drew up her hood in a vain attempt to hide her growing blush. "...You guys're mean." She mumbled, her face buried in the neck of her oversized sweatshirt. Even still, Weiss could make out a hint of a smile beneath the fabric.

Yang snorted, breaking her composure, a mischievous grin splitting her lips from ear to ear; Weiss raised her chin victoriously, and returned to her stew, a content smile on her face.

"As to your earlier question, Yang," Weiss continued, her voice as dry as the deserts of Vacuo, "spend three days on an IV drip, and just about anything will taste good. Even burnt rubber."

Yang chuckled, and leaned forward in her seat. "I can buy that. Still, if you're gonna join the ranks of us carnivores, there're better ways to do it, and you're inhaling that gunk like a vacuum cleaner. Taste in food aside, aren't you supposed to be a stickler for _proper dining etiquette_ , Ice Queen?"

Weiss paused, mid-bite, and lowered the spoon from her lips. As time had gone by, she'd gotten a little more used to Yang's give-and-take... but there were some lines that she just couldn't let the blonde cross. Criticizing her table manners, manners that she'd been trained in since birth, manners that she took pride in, was one such line.

Whether or not Yang had a point – that didn't matter.

"I refuse to take advice on culinary etiquette from a woman who puts hot sauce on everything," Weiss replied – and then, she added the finishing blow. "...including her hair." Her ice-blue eyes drifted pointedly to a spot just above the blonde's shoulder, and her lips twisted into a grimace.

"Wait, _what_? Where?" In a vanity-induced panic, Yang pawed at her golden locks – only to stiffen, at the sound of Ruby's obnoxious giggling, and the sight of the Schnee heiress' oh-so-innocent smile. Scowling, she _harrumphed_ , puffing out her cheeks.

"Oh, you little _jerk nugget_. That was cruel."

"Language," Weiss chided, glancing around pointedly. Soldiers and refugees alike passed by their table, mere feet away; the atmosphere would have been stifling, were it not for the open sky above. "There are impressionable children nearby."

"But, but that wasn't even-..."

At Weiss' disappointed glower, Yang huffed, and hung her head. "Yeah, you're right. I wouldn't want to scar Ruby."

As if on cue, the little reaper piped up, her voice an indignant soprano. "Hey! I'm not a child! I drink milk!" She cried, sitting up ram-rod straight. She folded her arms across her chest, and _hmphed._ With her chin raised, her eyes half-lidded, and that disinterested, vaguely disappointed look in her eyes... Weiss came to a realization.

It seemed that little Ruby was learning.

Weiss scoffed, though a smile played at her lips. "Dolt."

Ruby grumbled something under her breath... and her outrage vanished, abruptly, as though it had never been. Resting her chin on her hands, she sighed happily. "...I missed this, ya know."

"Being called a dolt?" Yang asked, raising an eyebrow – and then she snickered. "Yeah, I can see it. Weiss-cream _does_ grow on people. Like a tumor. A frilly, vindictive, white-haired tumor."

"Not at the table, brute," said Weiss, kicking Yang's shin beneath the table. "You're ruining my appetite worse than this abhorrent concoction ever could." She spared a glance down at her soup, a glance that Yang mirrored – and both of them grimaced.

"Ouch. Right in the dignity."

"I wasn't aware you _had_ dignity."

Yang paused thoughtfully, and scratched the back of her head. "Well, I did. I think. Pretty sure it's gone now."

"That's alright," sighed Weiss, fanning her face theatrically. "You never did anything with it, anyway. Besides, I've got more than enough for the both of us."

Ruby grinned fondly at her sister, and her partner; her silver eyes gleamed, growing a little watery. Weiss noticed that second development, but didn't call attention to it; she didn't want to put Ruby on the spot.

More to the point, she understood.

Near death experiences are funny like that. They show you what you care about most, and come a hair's breadth from taking it away. And coming back from such an experience, people _change_. Their priorities shift, their memories sharpen and blur, and they tend to enjoy the simple things more - like old jokes, familiar places, and stories shared with familiar faces.

Infighting and trading barbs had become part of their routine – and, in a twist of fate, it brought them all closer together. In layman's terms: where Team RWBY was concerned, a kick in the shin was an "I love you."

Then, Ruby's smile faltered somewhat... and with six simple words, she killed the mood entirely.

"I just wish Blake was here."

It wasn't Ruby's fault. Even with all the strides she'd made in the last year, their team leader was never the most... socially adept. But, regardless, she'd brought the elephant in the room into the sunlight, stomping and screaming.

Weiss hadn't seen Blake since she'd woken up. Not once. They'd both come to at about the same time, but while Weiss was confined to a hospital bed, Blake didn't share that same restriction; once the infection was cleared out of her system, she'd gathered up her things and taken off in the middle of the night. It was like their teammate had up and vanished from the camp entirely, leaving them all behind without so much as a goodbye.

Of course, that was impossible. Patch was surrounded by hundreds of miles of open ocean in every direction, and all outbound air traffic had been forcibly grounded in the wake of the Grimm attacks. Even if the cat faunus wanted to, she couldn't have the left island. Not yet, at any rate.

Regardless, the truth remained: Blake was hiding, trying to distance herself from her teammates. What Weiss didn't understand, what Weiss couldn't understand, was _why_.

Blake had always been secretive. Guarded. When something bothered her, she kept to her books, sequestering herself away from her teammates. But after their shared battles againt the White Fang, Blake had started to open up a little more; the ravenette had gotten comfortable enough with her teammates to share her troubles with them, to go out and actually deal with them instead of hiding away.

So what had changed? What could have possibly happened, that was making Blake hide from the people that cared about her? Weiss traced the cracks in the wooden table with a critical eye, as though she might find her answer within the faded, splintered wood - and as she did, she caught a flicker of movement in the corner of her eye.

Yang's hand had tightened on the edge of the table.

Oblivious to her elder sister's turmoil, or her partner's slowly-mounting suspicion, Ruby continued. "I was thinking of going on a hunt later today, and... thought it'd be something we could do as a team. Thought it'd be good for us. But she's not here, so..."

"A hunt?" Weiss parroted. The Schnee heiress' attention was almost entirely on her blonde teammate, who was pointedly _not_ meeting her gaze. "Ruby, not that I'm adverse to spending time together, but... isn't it a little early to be hunting Grimm?"

"We're not hunting Grimm," Ruby replied, shaking her head. "We're hunting Shirou."

"Shirou?"

At the sound of the name, foreign and at once intimately familiar, she found herself drawn into a memory... a memory that started with a flash of light, and a glyph, filled with _swords, spinning endlessly. Cold wind, cold blood, warm eyes. Arms surrounding her. Red fabric snapping in the wind, and then -_

"Yeah," Ruby exclaimed, tearing the heiress from her reverie. The little reaper's smile had returned in full force. "I've been looking for him for the past few days, but haven't had much luck. I thought that since Blake was up, I'd invite her, too – cause, you know, she's good at finding things, and I want to make sure she's okay, too - but I haven't been able to find her."

And then, she glanced away, her gaze heavy with worry - and a touch of guilt. "I think... I think she's avoiding me for some reason, though... and the worst part is, I don't get why."

Yang shrugged – and the motion set off alarm bells in Weiss' brain. "You know Blake. She can be hard to understand sometimes, and she's almost as stubborn as Weiss. She'll come around when she's ready to talk about it."

Weiss' eyebrows slowly rose up into her hairline, and she turned to study her teammate. Why was Yang being so _casual_ about this? Shouldn't she be more concerned? Weren't she and Blake partners? If Ruby was the one missing, Yang would be frothing at the mouth, tearing apart the island order to find her, come hell or high water.

"I don't get why though," Ruby repeated, furrowing her brow. "I mean... what'd I do?"

"I doubt she's mad at you, Rubes." Yang said, sighing. "Either way, there's no point in worrying about it. Like Weiss said earlier – pragmatism."

Habitually, Yang looked towards Weiss, searching for support – or, perhaps, confirmation. But within the ice-blue eyes of her teammate, Yang found something else: suspicion.

She wasn't prepared, and it showed.

A myriad of emotions flickered in the blonde's lavender eyes, so quickly that Weiss had trouble putting names them. The blonde looked... troubled. Angry? Afraid. Guilty?

Yang must have realized that she'd been caught flat-footed, because her face slipped into a mask of neutrality, the same mask that Weiss put on every time she was forced to attend a formal gathering. It was a poor attempt at hiding what she'd already shown, and it told Weiss all she needed to know.

Yang... she _knew_.

Whatever had happened, whatever was going on with Blake – Yang was aware of it. No - it was more than that. Yang was probably the _cause_ of it. Blake was upset, enough that she couldn't stand to be around the closest thing she had to family, and Yang had kept silent about it, hiding it from her teammates for days. And she was still keeping silent about it, while Ruby was worrying herself to pieces.

Weiss' glare became downright frigid. A tense silence fell between the two of them, and the blonde bruiser quickly looked away, swallowing thickly.

"...I guess," murmured Ruby, oblivious to the byplay. The hurt in her eyes – the disbelief, the doubt in Yang's words – faded, pushed aside in favor of other, more pressing concerns. She folded her arms across her chest, and leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table. "Anyway – like I was saying. No one's seen Shirou since he toasted Beacon. Which is... kinda crazy. I mean, he sticks out like a sore thumb."

Yang nodded, glancing towards the hospital - and, conveniently, away from her teammates. "You weren't awake for it, Weiss-cream, but he was flown back on the same bullhead we were. Last thing I saw, they brought him into the hospital." Though she tried to hide it, there was an undertone of relief in her voice, clear as day; relief that Ruby hadn't pushed her any further, relief that she didn't have to lie any more. "No one's seen him since."

Weiss pursed her lips, and with one last scornful look, made a mental note to interrogate Yang later. The blonde bruiser met her gaze coolly, her expression giving nothing away.

Ruby glanced back and forth between her teammates; when she spoke, her voice dropped into a harsh whisper. "His name's not in the patient registry, either... which I _may_ have taken a peek at when the receptionist turned her back."

Weiss shot the little reaper a scandalized look – and Ruby winced. "I know, I know," she hissed, "but none of the nurses would talk about it, and I was worried. I had to do _something_."

The heiress' expression softened. "...I understand," she sighed, and removed her beanie, allowing her snow-white hair to cascade down her back, absent its usual braid. She held the knit fabric gently between her hands, admiring the simplicity of it – and its softness.

"But, Ruby..." She pursed her lips, and met her leader's pleading gaze with her own. "There's no way to... put this delicately, so I'm just going to say it. Do you think that... maybe, the reason we haven't seen him is because he's...?"

Yang bowed her head, remaining silent.

"Shirou's not dead."

The sudden confidence, the _insistence_ , in Ruby's voice – it made Weiss double-take. It was sort of tone that one might take when describing a universal truth, a commonly understood law that could not be doubted. Ruby, despite all evidence to the contrary, believed, without a single doubt, that Shirou was alive.

And that made absolutely no sense, unless Ruby knew something she and Yang didn't.

Ruby blinked, owlishly, as the eyes of her sister and her partner settled on her.

"...What?" She asked, tilting her head to the side. "You guys are giving me that look again, the look you give me when I say something stupid."

Weiss and Yang exchanged a look.

"Rubes," Yang began, hesitantly. She ran a thumb along the stump where her arm used to be. "I'm not – I'm not saying we should give up on Shirou, but – I mean, we've gotta be realistic. After what he went through... he's tough, don't get me wrong, but he could have died."

"I am being realistic." Ruby replied. At her teammates' incredulous stares, Ruby shook her head... and a strange look came over her, a look that Weiss couldn't place. She fidgeted with the strings of her hoodie, toying with them absent-mindedly. "You don't get it. I - I can't really explain it, but I know he's alive. It's weird, and if I tell you, you'll think I'm weird, too."

At her teammates' continued silence, Ruby's fidgeting intensified. She drew in on herself, hunkering in her hoodie like a turtle in its shell. A moment passed – and then, the redhead began to speak, a nervous air about her.

"He's – okay, it's like this. When he doesn't want to be found, he won't be. Kinda like Blake." Ruby began, gesturing vaguely with her hand. "But when he gets close, even if he's hiding, I can... smell him, kinda. I don't know. But I know he's near, even if I can't see him. And this whole place smells like him, so..."

"...You can... smell him?" murmured Yang, blinking. "That's... yeah, that's weird. You, uh. You weren't kidding, Rubbles."

"Y-yeah," Ruby stuttered, fidgeting awkwardly. Once she started talking, though, the floodgate well and truly opened. "I know how it sounds, but I swear, I'm not crazy, and – and he smells like rust, but not like blood, 'cause swords don't bleed..."

The little reaper trailed off, lost in thought – and then, as though just realizing she had an audience, she drew back into her hood, trying to hide from the concerned gazes of her teammates.

Yang had a slightly glazed look in her eyes, like she'd taken up her uncle's drinking habit; Weiss, on the other hand, was eyeing Ruby like she'd just grown a second head.

"...Rubes, you've totally lost me," Yang confessed, scratching her head. "And that's saying something. Are you sure your head isn't... y'know... bothering you at all? Concussions can last for days, sometimes, and they can have weird side effects."

Ruby pursed her lips, and resumed tugging at the strings of her hoodie. "I mean, maybe. But my aim's just fine, my speech is good, and I'm not having trouble walking. And I think my head's clear – but if I didn't have a clear head, would I be able to tell? I've never had a concussion before, and this – it's just all so confusing."

"It couldn't hurt to get looked at," replied Weiss, letting out a slow breath. Ruby's revelation aside, she felt much more comfortable, now that the topic of conversation had once again returned to safe, familiar ground. She leaned back in her wheelchair, tapped her chin. "Actually, I know someone who could help, and a check-up wouldn't take long. Thirty minutes, perhaps. If you'd like, when we're finished here, you can wheel me over to the -"

 _Thump.  
_  
Her words were all but forgotten, as the breath was stolen from her lungs. _  
_  
The world pitched sideways.

"Weiss!" Someone cried. Ruby, maybe? Or was it Yang? It was hard to tell. The sounds of the community mess, the voices and the clinking of silverware, were lost in the haze of agony, adrenaline and nausea that ripped through her being. Her entire body was screaming at her, like it'd been ignited from the inside out, but her head, shoulder, and chest were their own level of hell. She couldn't breathe deeply; it hurt far too much, like someone placed a knife within her chest and twisted it in time with the beating of her heart.

Black spots filled her vision, and she closed her eyes.

* * *

The next thing Weiss knew, she was hanging sideways in her wheelchair, bent in half over the armrest. Ruby was beside her in a half-crouch, arms wrapped around her, her silver eyes flecked with worry. Her breaths came in short, ragged gasps, and she could hear herself wheezing. It was an _undignified_ sound, she thought, a _weak_ sound.

And she _really_ wanted to vomit, but held it in, because that, too, would be undignified. She'd lost a lot of things in the past week, but her dignity was one thing she refused to part with. She tried to sit up, and someone let out a pained groan. Distantly, she realized that the groan came from her own lips.

Ruby's arms tightened around her – and as they did, they were suddenly obscured by a shadow. Dazedly, Weiss glanced up, searching for its source... only to see a mane of golden hair.

Yang stood protectively over her teammate and her little sister, her back ramrod straight, her fist knuckle-white at her side.

"Who threw that!?" She shouted, her voice piercing the gentle din of the community mess like a thunderclap. Dozens of people looked back at her, confused and surprised.

One person, Weiss noted, didn't look so confused: a wolf faunus, in his late teens, with dark circles around his hate-filled eyes.

"Hey, dipshit!" With a frustrated growl, Yang took off, stomping towards the man. Heads turned, as did curious eyes; the sea of bystanders parted before her, allowing her passage towards the target of her ire. The faunus, his shoulders set and his arms folded across his chest, made no move to retreat; either he was stupid, or just that cocky. Naturally, the heiress assumed it was a combination of both.

"Wasn't me," he said, even as a wicked grin split his lips. "Though, I've gotta say... seeing a Schnee get clocked – that was _damned_ satisfying. Wish I got that on my scroll."

The crowd formed a half-circle around the two of them: close enough to eavesdrop, and far enough away that they wouldn't be caught in the crossfire.

"You must be a special kind of stupid, if you think that _anything_ could justify taking pot-shots at a girl in a wheelchair!" The blonde snarled, her eyes flashing dangerously. She got up in the teen's face, gesturing with an angry swipe of her hand.

"She's lucky she _has_ a wheelchair," the man countered, matching Yang's glare with one of his own. His smile was exceptionally sharp; whether that was due to his heritage, his anger, or a combination of both, one could only guess. "Most folks don't get so lucky."

At that, Yang snorted derisively. "The world's sinking into chaos, people are dying by the thousands, and all you can say is, 'I'm pissed she didn't go down with the ship'? The fuck is your problem?"

"My problem?" The faunus asked, coldly. He stepped in closer; physically, he was much more imposing than the blonde, clocking in at well over six feet, broad in the shoulders with the defined arms of one who made a living through physical labor.

"You wanna know what my problem is?" He hissed, sparing a vicious glare at Weiss, who was still hunched over in her wheelchair. Despite the fact that he wasn't armed – despite the fact that he wasn't a Huntsman, if his build was anything to go by – he still looked damned intimidating, with his bared fangs and clawed fingertips. In her current state, Weiss wouldn't be able to hold him off, and that scared her more than she'd care to admit.

Thankfully, she wasn't alone; Ruby slid in front of her protectively, her silver eyes as hard as steel. She ceased all movement, and entered what Yang affectionately referred to as 'combat mode'. Gone was the carefree laughter and bumbling speech of a teenage girl, and in its place was the piercing gaze of a tactician, a gaze that panned over the crowd, judging distances, seeking out targets, calculating wind velocity and vectors of attack. As her eyes panned across the wolf faunus, they narrowed – and she frowned.

That frown would only deepen.

"When we got here on the bullheads, they had to ration meds," the faunus spat, his tone flat and hard. "The hospital was so short-staffed they had to play _triage,_ choosing which patients to help and which ones to let go. I sat in the lobby, forced to watch my brother die from a chest wound, 'cause they couldn't treat him. They couldn't even spare him pain-killers. He died in _agony_."

His voice continued to rise, growing bolder and more confident with each word – and yet more refugees lent him their ears, stopping to listen to his story, hanging onto his every word.

"But Weiss Schnee?" the man asked, laughing bitterly. "Oh, no. No, no, no! She don't have to follow the same rules as the rest of us. Soon as she touched down, she had six medical techs at her beck and call. I know – I was there. I saw them wheel her in. And while I sat there, my brother taking his last breath after being shot by one of her droids, she got to skip to the front of the line. Why? Because _daddy dearest_ bought out the fuckin' board of directors!"

Weiss bit her lip. Ruby stared. And Yang – Yang grit her teeth, a sharp retort ready and waiting. "So... what, then? You've got your panties in a twist because a father loves his daughter? And that gives you the go-ahead to throw rocks at an outpatient?"

"I'm mad because the Schnees don't give a _shit_ about the rest of us!" The faunus gestured broadly, sweeping his hand over the crowd. He was all but shouting, spittle flying from his lips. "It was their bots that screwed us all in the first place! We work in their mines, we suffer and die and bleed to make their war machines, and what do they do? They use 'em on us!"

Yang probably couldn't see what was happening. When she got mad, she developed an acute case of tunnel vision, focusing on the source of her anger until it was dead and gone. Ruby was in the same boat, but for different reasons; she'd always been naive, and far too trusting in other people, unwilling to see their darkness.

Weiss, on the other hand... she didn't share her teammate's shortcomings. So as the angry faunus continued his very public tirade, she _saw_.

That faunus – he was like the conductor of a symphony, captivating his audience... an audience of refugees, dirty faces and hollowed eyes that had ceased milling about the encampment. They numbered at least forty now, perhaps more. And as he spoke, as he continued to goad Yang, the heiress could see his same anger, his same desperation, mirrored in their faces. There was no telling how many of the refugees had experienced something similar to what he'd gone through... or how many of them had lost loved ones in the chaos, to the same droids that had claimed the life of his brother.

People loved their scapegoats. And in the chaos of war, groups of people could be convinced to do very stupid things... like rioting in the middle of a refugee camp.

The faunus thrust a finger in Weiss' direction, a clawed finger that was every bit as sharp as his tongue. "Princess over there? She took a pebble to the shoulder. Cry me a river! The rest of us – we took bullets, and most of our loved ones didn't live to tell about it!"

Hands began reaching for weapons. Harried voices began to whisper, and several sets of dark eyes settled on the heiress... and Weiss swallowed, feeling the weight of their gazes like a physical thing, pinning her in her chair. A bead of sweat dripped down her brow.

The crowd was a powder keg, ready to burst. All it needed was a spark.

And to Weiss' dismay, they had one.

Yang was the team's heart and soul, their unofficial mom, the one who looked out for everyone else when the battles reached their close. Her downfall, her fault, was that she had a temper, coupled with a fierce protective streak. Touch someone she valued, and Yang would rain down hell-fire.

Even missing an arm, it seemed that Yang hadn't lost her fire. But that wasn't to say she'd escaped the battle unscathed. If anything, the experience had set the blonde bruiser on edge. She seemed almost _too eager_ to burn – jumping at the slightest provocation, her fierce protective nature dialed up to eleven.

If anyone so much as looked at Weiss or Ruby funny, Yang got this... expression on her face. It reminded Weiss of that Boarbatusk she'd killed in her first week at Beacon.

The affectionate looks she used to give her teammates became overshadowed with a hint of possessive paranoia, as though they'd fall to pieces at any moment if she wasn't watching. And that insecurity became _anger_. Not her usual anger, either – this anger was something something dark, something toxic, something that didn't belong... and as Weiss watched, she knew that it was reaching its boiling point.

Yang was a heartbeat from losing control. And the faunus – he was playing her like a fiddle, pushing her to the brink. If she gave in, if she took the plunge, more than a few people would pay the price.

It couldn't happen. She couldn't lose control. Weiss wouldn't let her.

Weiss stared, swallowing thickly. She opened her mouth to say something, to call Yang off, to _warn_ her – and let loose a ragged cough, as pain raked across her chest and back. It was like someone had sewn razor-blades into the lining of her heart, and was tugging at them whenever she tried to take a deep breath. And as Ruby's arms tightened around hers, it was hard to say what hurt more: the burning in her lungs, or the look of guilt in her leader's eyes.

Regardless, she had more important things to worry about.

"She deserves that wheelchair – and she deserves to _stay_ in it!"

 _Fwoosh!_

A pair of lilac eyes suddenly burned a vibrant crimson, a set of pearly-white teeth snapped into a savage snarl... and _flames_ ignited within a certain someone's golden locks, licking at her back and shoulders.

The faunus, realizing just _who_ he'd managed to piss off, stiffened in surprise. A hush seemed fell over crowd of spectators, as they, too, realized what was about to happen; not an eye in the community mess wavered from the scene. The world seemed to hold its breath.

" _Huntress_ ," the faunus breathed, comprehension dawning in his eyes. "You're – you're a Huntress."

Where was Ruby? Why was she standing on the sidelines, silent as the grave? Why was she biting her lip, and why did those silver eyes of hers look so _torn_? She'd never frozen in combat, never stopped fighting, even when they'd stared into the maw of a Dragon... so why was she stopping now, of all times? If Ruby would just speak up, if she'd just say something, she could control the fight, she could _stop_ it, before -

"Damned straight," Yang hissed. "My friends call me Yang. But you – you can call me _daddy_."

Panic struck the teen as hard as any physical blow, and he threw a desperate punch. It was a low blow, a sucker punch aimed for Yang's sternum; it was the opening salvo of a brutally short war.

Perhaps he thought his size would give him an advantage; physically, he towered over Yang, and must have outweighed her by a good forty, fifty pounds. Maybe he thought that, since she was missing an arm, she wouldn't be as much of a threat. He was right, on both counts... but that didn't change the outcome of the brawl.

No matter how wounded she might've been, picking a fight with a pissed-off huntress was _never_ a good idea.

Yang grabbed his meaty fist within her smaller one, halting its forward momentum completely. Alone and unassisted, her hand might have been rocked back by such a fierce strike; however, with the benefit of Aura enhancement, her attacker might as well have punched a brick wall.

Given the size difference between them, the sight might have been comical. What happened next, though... that wasn't.

Yang _squeezed_.

A loud series of pops ripped through the silence of the encampment, as bones were crushed within the Huntress' grip. The faunus let out a choking gasp; his face paled, and his lips parted, but uttered no sound.

Not that it mattered – others made such sounds for him. A girl screamed. A mother covered her son's eyes, whispering words of safety. A man cursed under his breath, as though he'd just seen the devil himself. Indeed, maybe he had; maybe they all had.

Yang released her grip. The faunus stumbled back, clutching his ruined hand to his chest - as though she weren't a huntress, as though cradling his digits to his chest would actually protect them, as though stepping back would somehow keep him safe.

Tucking his chin to his chest, he stared at his wound, his eyes glazed over in a mix of shock and disbelief. So distracted was he, that he barely heard her speak.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to hit a woman?"

Swallowing, he managed to tear his gaze away from his hand – only to gasp, as crimson eyes filled his vision.

"Because, the thing about women is... they hit back."

Yang cocked back her fist - a fist that, even without the benefit of _Ember Celica_ , was still strong enough to punch through concrete. A fist that would shatter the man's skull with a love-tap. A fist that would probably start a riot, a riot that would end in several people dead, and dozens of lives ruined. A fist that would utterly destroy the tentative order that'd been established in the wake of the Invasion, and throw what few survivors remained into the proverbial meat grinder.

Weiss watched, her heart dropping into her stomach, as Yang cocked back her fist –

\- and stopped, suddenly, mid-punch.

Yang hadn't suddenly realized the error of her ways. She certainly hadn't lost her anger, either; at the moment, her blood was singing, and most of her conscious thoughts likely involved the man's face, her fist, and some combination thereof. Given the fury in her eyes, chances were that she was barely aware of the crowd, let alone the stricken gazes of her teammates.

But her punch faltered nonetheless... because someone had placed their hand in the crook of her elbow, holding her back. Someone whose steely fingers dug into the muscle there, preventing movement.

" _Enough._ "

* * *

Sunset eyes locked with hers, and the man who saved her – who saved them _all_ – spoke, in a tone that sent a shiver down Weiss' spine.

Snapping her head to her left, Yang glared at the offending appendage. Her eyes danced along the tanned flesh of a man's knuckles, calloused and worn... and then traveled up an arm cocooned with medical tape.

Shirou, the Hero of Beacon, had finally made his appearance... and the angry murmurs of the crowd faded into blessed silence, as the people beheld their savior for the first time.

Weiss had only seen him for a few moments, and her memory of that time was a little foggy - her sole interaction with the Dragon Slayer was when she'd caught a brief glimpse of him, moments before she'd passed out from her injuries, hurtling towards the remains of Beacon's tower at breakneck speeds. Worse still, it was in pitch-blackness, and she only caught the faintest hint of his outline, illuminated by the remains of her improvised glyph.

He was taller than she remembered. More muscular, too. And despite his prematurely white hair, he actually looked fairly young; in his early-to-mid twenties, perhaps, and in his physical prime. A sleeveless black bodysuit, form-fitted and armored, adorned his frame; his arms were wrapped in medical tape from the elbow down. Fresh scars, pale against his tanned skin, danced across his skin like tattoos. His crimson shawl had been re-purposed into a cowl, similar to what an archer might wear in order to shield his eyes from sunlight; it wrapped around his shoulders and traveled partway down his back, like a makeshift cloak, though it was frayed and tattered at its edges. Likely, it had been damaged in the battle, and had yet to be repaired.

In short, Weiss barely recognized him. But his eyes - like sunsets, a pleasant medley of orange, purple, and gold - she would recognize those anywhere.

The only problem, to Weiss' mind, was that those beautiful eyes of his were locked in a silent duel with those of her teammate... and the sight of it chilled her to the bone. Not because they were locked on her teammate's - Yang had a habit of pissing off everyone she spoke to, even on a good day - but because, in all of her years, she'd never thought such warm eyes could appear so _cold_.

The two fighters stared at each other for a moment, some silent conversation passing between them. Yang opened her mouth to speak; Shirou's gaze narrowed, accusingly, and her mouth shut with an audible click. Yang's expression became fraught with indecision, with _doubt_ \- and the flames weaving through her golden locks sputtered and died.

Weiss let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. " _Shirou._.."

Yang relaxed and lowered her fist back to her side. She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. The tension left her shoulders, and her she bowed her head, staring at her boots. Her expression, though, remained unapologetic; her eyes, a deep shade of scarlet.

Shirou released her arm.

He looked down at the faunus, whose eyes were wide with shock and awe - and then, the Counter Guardian turned back to Weiss, his gaze piercing. Weiss felt her heart race, and she swallowed nervously. Shirou's probing gaze trailed from her wheelchair, to Ruby, and then to her wounded shoulder.

He turned to face the crowd.

A pregnant silence filled the community mess, and no one dared to break it. All eyes were on the newcomer, waiting for his next move. Whispers broke out in the crowd, as their savior appeared; their legendary dragon-slayer, the talk of their stories, suddenly became real. Hands wavered on their weapons, awaiting orders... awaiting _justice_.

Shirou spoke.

"This man attacked two wounded huntresses and paid the price for his actions," he stated. "Their fight is over."

Whispers spread like wildfire through the crowd. Awestruck gazes faltered, and were replaced by looks of disbelief.

"Everyone, go about your business," he continued, looking out over the crowd. "There's nothing to see here."

Apparently, not everyone agreed with that statement, and some were more vocal about their discontent than others. None were more upset than the wolf faunus, who'd climbed to his knees, cradling his injured hand. Despite his injuries, his eyes hadn't lost their fire - if anything, he was even _more_ emboldened.

"What?" He roared, his voice raw with pain and fear. "All of this – every life lost - it's because of her, and her family! And you're just gonna let her go? You call this even?"

The Counter Guardian didn't rise to the bait; even through the man's tirade, his expression remained as cool as ice. "What do you expect me to do? Punish a girl for the sins of her father?"

Shirou held out an empty hand - and in that hand, an ominous-looking dagger appeared in a flash of light and prana. It was a straight, tapered blade, one that almost resembled a crucifix, one wrought of dark metals and interwoven with silvered filigree.

As the dagger appeared in his hands, Ruby inhaled sharply, and her hand tightened on Weiss' shoulder. Weiss winced as a spike of pain shot through her - and she, too, lost her breath, as Shirou spoke.

"Alright, then. Would you have me cut her throat?" In the gentle din of the community mess, his words might as well have been projected through a megaphone. "It'd be a quick death. Bloody, but relatively painless. She'd die before the shock wore off. It'd be like falling asleep."

The faunus stilled, his eyes settling on the dagger in Shirou's hands. He swallowed thickly, glancing warily up at the Counter Guardian's neutral gaze, and his rage began to falter. "That's - that's not -"

"You're right," Shirou nodded, distractedly. "That wouldn't be _just_. No."

The dagger within his hand disappeared, and in a heartbeat was replaced by an equally black bow. It was of relatively simple make, but Weiss would recognize it anywhere; Ruby hadn't stopped talking about it since she'd seen him use it to slaughter an entire horde of Grimm with a single arrow.

"Perhaps I should put an arrow in her lung," their savior mused. "It'd be a slow, painful death, just like the one your brother endured. She'd drown to death in her own blood. Does that sound a little more reasonable? A little more just?"

He knocked an arrow within the bow... and drew it back. The arrow's tip, gleaming in the sunlight, was aimed unerringly at Weiss' heart. The sight of it sent a tremor of fear down her spine, and for good reason.

Though the arrow hadn't yet left the man's fingers, the sharpness of it - the confidence, the ease, with which he held it - it spoke of a lifetime of training. If Shirou chose to loose that arrow, there would be nothing to protect her from its wrath, save for a thin layer of cotton and wool. Staring at that tip, she could almost imagine it piercing her chest; despite herself, she hunched slightly, scooting back into her wheelchair, putting whatever distance she could between herself and that wickedly sharp point.

"I..." The faunus' voice faltered - as did the crowd's lust for Weiss' blood. Fantasizing about killing a teenage girl was one thing; seeing someone else about to do it, on the other hand, was another entirely. What the crowd wanted, what it needed, was _justice. S_ howing them what they were actually asking for, presenting them with the truth behind their motivations, had called upon their rage and turned it on its head.

And Shirou, Weiss realized, was doing just that.

Her fear vanished, as quickly as it appeared. She straightened herself in her wheelchair, as much dignity as she could. No longer was she an anonymous refugee; she was once again a Schnee, and needed to play the part.

She let out a slow breath, and nodded.

"No?" Sunset eyes lingered on the Weiss for a moment, silently assessing her, asking a question she couldn't quite discern. Then, his pitch-black bow vanished into motes of azure light, and Shirou turned back to face her accuser. "What sort of justice did you have in mind, then?"

The wounded teen stared, grinding his teeth... and yet, he didn't respond. He couldn't. He was pigeonholed into a corner, with no avenues of escape; the momentum he'd been building had been lost as swiftly as it was born.

"I have no patience for your ineptitude," Shirou continued, his voice frosty. His eyes shifted to the crowd, and he addressed them as a whole. "All of you. Weiss is an injured teenager, one who nearly gave her life in service to her country, and her people. She's in that wheelchair because she was fighting for _you_. Save your anger for the Grimm. They're the real enemy."

Almost too quickly for Weiss to follow, the teen stood. Perhaps it was his faunus genetics coming into play; whatever the case, he was on his feet in less time than it took most men could blink.

"Why, you-!"

A knife entered his good hand, drawn from a concealed sheathe at his belt, and he lunged forward in a fit of blind rage - only to stiffen, his sudden fury grinding to a halt. There was a flash of light. His rage, and his words, were silenced by the cold kiss of steel.

Glancing down, he was surprised to find the razor-sharp edge of an ivory shortsword pressed gently against his throat.

He swallowed.

"Move," Shirou stated, "and I will end you where you stand."

Yang stiffened, glancing up at Shirou for the first time since he'd started speaking. The crimson had yet to leave her eyes, but the look in them - it was more confused than angry.

Weiss pursed her lips, eyeing the swordsman with wary eyes. It was obvious that Shirou was on their side, but... was he, really? Was this truly the man that saved Yang, saved them all, and killed an Elder Drake to do it? She furrowed her brow, trying to puzzle out the enigma that was her savior.

"You wouldn't," the faunus stammered, staring up defiantly at Shirou. Despite his bravado, though, he was still a teenager - and the tremor in his voice, the cracking, gave his fear away. "You - you said it yourself. You wouldn't kill someone who was injured. It's not just. It's not _fair._ "

"You're right. It's not just," he replied, after a moment. The teen swallowed thickly, a brief look of relief passing over his features - only to stiffen as the blade was pressed harder into his throat.

Shirou stepped around the boy, but his blade never wavered from his throat. A second shortsword, obsidian-black, formed within his opposite hand; he pressed that sword to the back of the boy's neck.

It was a collar of jagged steel. One sudden movement, one errant twitch, and the faunus would remove his own head... a fact he was intimately aware of, as he tried, vainly, to stop himself from shaking. Fear gripped the faunus like a vice, a fear so potent that he scarcely dared to _breathe_.

"But what do you think would happen, if I were to let you go?" Shirou asked, seemingly oblivious to the boy's terror. His eyes, flinty and dark, bored holes into the boy's own. "In a fit of misplaced anger, you would attack Weiss. Her teammates would rise to her defense. Others would be drawn into the fighting. Dozens of lives would be claimed, and the damage done to this encampment would leave it vulnerable to Grimm attacks. Many more would die in the days to follow."

Shirou twisted the blades ever-so-slightly. The teen, his eyes wide with fear, let out a trembling gasp; he began to breathe faster, sucking in quick, shallow breaths. Blood trickled beneath the biting steel, hot and wet.

"But if I killed you, _right now_... that would end the rioting before it started," Shirou continued, conversationally. "No one would stand up for you, because that would mean fighting me. Any man can best a teenage girl in a wheelchair. Unfortunately for you - _I am the farthest thing from one_."

Shirou's eyes danced along the crowd, with the same sort of clinical detachment that Ruby might use when assessing her targets. The comparison was eerie, both because it was true, and... because of the target of his gaze. Ruby reserved those eyes for the Grimm, but the man before her... he was looking at _people_ the same way.

That same creeping horror from before resumed its gnawing at her belly. Because whatever Shirou's play was, whatever side he chose - this talk of his, _this_ was not an act. This was not bravado. No. The way he spoke of killing, it... it was like he'd-...

"So let me ask you, _boy..."_

A smile split the Counter Guardian's lips, a smile that didn't meet his eyes. It was the smile of a killer.

"One life for a hundred. Does that sound fair to you?"

The faunus broke... and Weiss couldn't blame him. Hot tears pooled in his eyes and dripped down his cheeks, steaming in the cool hair. Still, though, he didn't dare make a sound; he didn't dare move. A tense few seconds passed, as Shirou's blades hovered at his throat.

And then, the white-haired swordsman lowered his blades.

It was like a switch had been thrown. The faunus collapsed, falling away from the blades, trembling. Tears flecked at the corners of his eyes, eyes that were wild with terror. Drawing in on himself, he scrambled back on his shaking limbs in a desperate attempt to put as much distance between himself and his tormentor as he could. He clapped a hand to the wound at his throat, shivering as blood trickled through his fingers in a steady stream. No one moved to help him; the entire crowd was stricken by fear, by indecision.

And Shirou - he began to walk away.

He turned his back on the boy, swords held loosely at his sides, his expression apathetic. It was like he didn't _care_ \- like he didn't care about what he'd just done, like he didn't care that he'd threatened her life, threatened a boy's life. And his eyes... they weren't red, they weren't hungry, but -

\- but in that moment, they reminded Weiss of the Grimm.

"Justice," he muttered, closing his eyes. "What a joke."

As he approached, the crowd of refugees gave him a wide berth. People seemed to collectively hold their breaths while he passed - as though, were they to make a sound, they might draw his ire. And as he passed through the ring of refugees, he spared a glance over his shoulder, his sunset eyes settling on the three injured members of Team RWBY.

"Coming?"

Weiss glanced around at the shaken crowd, meeting their bewildered stares with one of her own.

Yang was the first to react. The blonde met Shirou's gaze with one of her own, and then she nodded, her expression giving nothing away. Drawing her leather jacket tightly about her shoulders, she began to follow in Shirou's wake. Her movements lacked their usual confidence; instead, she moved like a kicked puppy, with its tail between its legs... and she kept her eyes trained on her feet.

Weiss didn't have to look to Ruby; she didn't have time to. As soon as Yang began to move, so did her wheelchair. The metal contraption rattled and squeaked as it rolled through the dirt, guided by her team leader, whose pale hands were knuckle-white on the push-bars.

Dozens of eyes fell on the heiress and her escort, but she refused to let her unease show. Even as the whispers began, and hands reached for weapons once more, she kept her gaze firmly ahead, her back straight, and her lips a hard line.

As they approached their two companions, though, something happened... something that distracted her, something that turning her discipline to ash, something that made her composure waver.

A drop of something hot and wet struck against her cheek.

Blinking, she brought a hand to the spot, and wiped at it - only to notice that it was... greasy. Thick. Almost oily to the touch. She pulled her fingers away - and found them stained red.

She glanced up.

Weiss expected Ruby to behave a certain way, and her expectations were well-founded. In a situation like this one, she expected Ruby to be... jittery. Sheepish, or... worried, perhaps. She expected the little reaper's silver eyes to be on the move - perhaps lingering on her older sister for support, or perhaps fretting over the injuries of her teammates.

What she saw was different.

Ruby didn't seem to notice the anxious crowd's hungry stares, nor the blood dripping from her nose. It was like she was detached from her surroundings, walking in a trance; her footfalls were relaxed and evenly space, lacking their usual clumsiness, unhastened by the tension in the air.

And perhaps it was a trick of the light, but Ruby's eyes seemed... colder, somehow, as they focused intently on the blades in Shirou's hands. It was like the sight of those blades, resplendent and wicked in equal measure, had reforged her silver pools into something harder. Something sharper... something empty.

Something like steel.

" _Red like roses_ ," Ruby murmured, so softly that Weiss almost missed it. " _Red like rust. The two of us cannot hold the heavens together..._ "

The sudden shiver that swept down Weiss' spine had nothing to do with the cold.

* * *

They walked through the encampment in relative silence. In spite of the brilliant sun shining overhead, an oppressive air hung over the group, and no one seemed eager to break it.

Yang kept her eyes steadfastly on her feet, pausing only to cast fleeting glances at Shirou, as though assuring herself of his presence... and decidedly _not_ glancing at her little sister, for fear of what she might see reflected in those silver orbs. Ruby kept her gaze fixated on Shirou's swords, while her body seemed to move on autopilot. And Weiss - Weiss was curled in on herself, shivering, a tad uncertain.

The encampment was incredibly busy during daylight hours, but it seemed that everyone was avoiding them like the plague; and as they walked, people skirted from their path, stepping to the sides of the road in twos and threes, their eyes widening in recognition and no small hint of fear. Their earlier display had been a fairly public one, and the camp's rumor mill worked fast; odds were that someone had started talking, and rumors of the Schnee Heiress and her white-haired Swordsman threatening the life of a grief-stricken teenager, and a faunus no less, had already begun to circulate.

Or, perhaps their fear was a little more grounded. The white-haired swordsman was something of a celebrity; his appearance would be something that most refugees would have recognized. More to the point, though, was the source behind his fame: his slaying of an Elder Drake with a single swing of a magical sword.

And that swordsman, stalking through the encampment, scowling, with a pair of unfamiliar, alien swords between his palms... it was enough to set even the most understanding people on edge. His posture screamed _danger,_ and only a fool would fail to see it.

In the end, the 'why' didn't matter. What mattered was that no one dared step within ten feet of them. And after everything that had just happened? Weiss was grateful for it.

Shirou kept walking, not saying a word as he led them on their impromptu exodus. And like Ruby, Weiss found that she couldn't look away from him, either; maybe it was the mystery surrounding him, or the contradiction between what she'd seen and what she'd heard, but the white-haired swordsman interested her. The thought of him, the idea of him, baffled her, scared her, and yet -... she couldn't bring herself to think badly of him. She _wanted_ to like him, as strange as that sounded.

And for the life of her, she couldn't fathom why.

Packed earth gave way to grass, and open sky gave way to a canopy of trees as the four of them left the encampment in their wake. The whispers of refugees gave way to the whispers of the cool autumn breeze, as it snaked through grasping branches overhead. Leaves _crackled_ and _crunched_ beneath three sets of boots as they made their way down the forest path.

"...Why'd you stop me?"

It was Yang who spoke first. She'd always been the talkative sort; it was no surprise. What was surprising was the confusion in her tone, and the hesitation in her eyes. What was the blonde if not confident, if not self-assured?

"Because you were too drunk on rage to stop yourself," the man replied, bluntly. He glanced fleetingly at the blonde, his gaze searching. "Am I wrong?"

"I wasn't going to kill him," protested Yang. Her voice was sharp and pleading; her words came much too fast. "I was - I was just gonna smack him around a bit. He hurt Weiss! He said - he said she deserved to be stuck in a wheelchair, and - and..."

Sunset eyes, knowing and unamused, battered her into submission. At long last, the crimson faded from her eyes, and she hung her head, suddenly finding her boots incredibly interesting. Peering down at her laces, Yang sighed.

"...and maybe I wasn't," she admitted, kicking a stone as it crossed her path. "Thinking, I mean. Maybe I was so... angry, that I almost crossed a line."

Yang let out a slow breath, a breath that turned to fog in the frigid air - and she closed her eyes. "Thanks," she murmured.

Shirou's eyes drifted back to the forest path, and he nodded. The group lapsed into a more comfortable silence, punctuated only by the chirping of insects and cries of distant deer.

Time passed - thirty minutes, perhaps longer. It was hard to tell. The forest canopy blocked out the sun, and since her scroll had ceased functioning, the heiress didn't have an accurate way to measure it. But she did notice when the light overhead began to dim, and the wind picked up just a little more bite. And as that time passed, so did the forestry beside them; the path twisted and turned, winding farther and farther away from camp.

"...Where are we going?" Weiss finally asked, resisting the urge to let her teeth chatter. Despite herself, another shiver lanced through her - and she cupped her good hand over her mouth, breathing into it in an effort to stave away the chill. Her coat might have been thick, but her hospital scrubs were paper-thin, and unlike her teammates, she wasn't moving. She wouldn't have that luxury, not for a few days at least, until her collarbone and broken ribs had healed sufficiently.

"You'll see," Shirou replied, sparing a glance in her direction. Sunset eyes flickered to her own, then drifted to clothes, as if noting her state of dress for the first time. A soft frown graced his lips. "We'll be there in a moment."

And he was true to his word. Almost immediately after he'd spoken, the path before them began to widen, becoming more defined. Footprints and disturbed underbrush, scored bark and felled trees hinted at the presence of another encampment... and of people nearby.

They emerged from the canopy, and their savior finally came to a stop.

"Make yourselves at home," Shirou said, his gaze sweeping over the girls. He jerked his chin towards their destination.

It was a modestly-sized campsite, maybe forty feet across, with a roaring fire at its center. Even from such a distance, Weiss could feel the heat dancing against her fingers, beckoning her closer. Beside the fire lay a pair of bedrolls, along with a set of pristine cookware, a small stack of books, several maps, and what looked like a salvaged short-wave radio.

The scent of cooking food, spiced and seasoned, tickled her nose - and her mouth began to water. Her eyes were drawn to the fire, and to the steaming pot above it. She didn't know what was in it, but Yang hadn't been kidding when she'd said that the camp staff were terrible cooks; whatever was in that pot, it smelled _divine,_ reigniting her hunger with a burning vengeance.

She was torn from her culinary fantasies as Shirou dismissed his swords. It was mesmerizing to watch, the way the steel between his palms seemed to ripple and vanish, gone without a trace, save for the motes of light that flitted about in their passing.

And Weiss wasn't the only one drawn in by the sight of it. Ruby's eyes, hard and flat, followed Shirou's hands until the precise moment they disappeared - and then, she blinked, before gripping her head, letting out a soft groan of pain.

That groan drew the eyes of her teammates.

"...Ruby?" Weiss asked, hesitantly. She glanced warily at Shirou, as he busied himself about the campsite. "Are you alright?"

"Y-yeah." Ruby grimaced, rubbing her temple with her fingers, her eyes shut tightly. "Just a headache, is all. Bad memories. I'm gonna - I'm gonna sit down for a minute. Is that okay?"

Yang, noticing her sister's sudden exhaustion, gave a sharp nod. She gestured towards an open spot by the fire, with a contemplative look in her eyes. "I'll take over. Go head, Rubes - take a seat."

"Sounds good," Ruby sighed, sounding utterly exhausted. Freed from wheelchair duty, she staggered towards the fire, scuffing her boots with each step. Under the watchful gazes of her teammates, she got within spitting distance of the blaze and all but collapsed beside it.

And her teammates weren't the only ones watching.

Shirou returned. While the girls were distracted, he'd entered the tent, and returned with an armful of emergency blankets - the light-weight, reflective kind used by Huntsmen in cold climates to prevent hypothermia. Walking over to the fire, he set one across Ruby's shoulders; blinking owlishly, the little reaper glanced up at him, eyeing him with no small amount of confusion. "Er...?"

Shirou ignored her. Instead, he turned turned to Yang, his gaze expectant; another blanket was secured beneath his arm.

"I'm good, Sunshine," Yang replied, rapping her chest with a closed fist. "Semblance keeps me running hot."

Shirou's brow furrowed, and his lips twitched at the corners; evidently, he wasn't a fan of that name. Then, he glanced down. Yang followed his gaze, and was met with the disappointed glare of her teammate, who was rubbing her knees together in a desperate attempt to stay warm.

"C-contrary to what you might think," Weiss hissed, "I am n-not immune to the cold. Now. If y-you would be so kind."

"Right. Sorry." Clearing her throat, and having the decency to look a little sheepish, the blonde nodded. "Toss it here."

He did.

Yang held out a hand, catching the thrown blanket in the crook of her elbow, and draped it across Weiss' legs with a flourish. And suddenly, a look dawned in her eyes - and a cheshire grin split her lips, a grin that the heiress did _not_ approve of.

"...Yang," Weiss began, a note of warning creeping into her voice, "I _know_ that look..."

"What?" Asked the blonde, oh-so-innocently. Ignoring Weiss's suspicious glare, she glanced pointedly at the blanket, and then at Ruby... and her grin widened. "I'm just gonna help."

"And how, exactly, are you planning on doing that?"

"By breaking the _Weiss,"_ she drawled.

The blonde began channeling her aura, stoking the flames of her Semblance, super-heating the air around her. Smirking mischievously, she leaned forward over the wheelchair's handlebars... and pressed her cleavage firmly into the top of Weiss' head. "Feeling a little warmer yet, _Weiss-cream_?"

Weiss twitched angrily, and opened her mouth to issue a sharp retort - only for an errant strand of Yang's hair to make its way between her parted lips. The heiress raised her good hand, batting it aside, and pouted like a petulant child; anything she might have said lost its bite as soon as she started sputtering, pawing at her tongue. Her cheeks flushed red, with anger and embarrassment.

Ruby's giggling didn't help her mood, either. Oh, the heiress _knew_ what Yang was doing, she knew it was for a good cause - but some transgressions could not simply be forgiven, no matter how well-intentioned.

"My dignity will be avenged," Weiss grumbled, glowering up at her smug-looking teammate, whose lilac eyes were _far_ too close for her comfort. "Yang Xiao Long, they will never find your body."

"There, there," Yang said, sighing theatrically. She rubber her cheek against Weiss' own, ignoring the way Weiss' hand twitched, reaching for a weapon that wasn't there. "You said you had enough of that stuff for the both of us. I'm just taking that burden off of your shoulders - you know, helping. Like a good teammate."

"In that case, you have my _eternal_ gratitude." The sarcasm in her voice was so thick that even Ruby couldn't miss it.

"No problem! That's what I'm here for." Yang grinned.

Humming victoriously, and with a little skip in her step, Yang guided Weiss forward - forward, towards the their teammate, their savior, and the fire they shared.

* * *

The silence had vanished, and the breeze was singing with laughter.

The sun began to set, cooling the already frigid air - but that didn't bother the three members of Team RWBY, sitting around the campfire. The flames flickered and danced in the dying afternoon light, like a little fireworks display; the only thing warmer than the fire was the laughter around it.

And at the sound of that laughter, Shirou felt a distant ache in his chest - a pleasant ache, a familiar ache, a gentle pressure on his heart. Distant, half formed memories swam behind his eyelids, memories of dark hair, ice-blue eyes, and... warmth. A warmth that suffused his being, easing his troubled mind.

Despite himself, his lips twitched into a faint smile.

Ruby was leaning up against Weiss' wheelchair, using the her knees as an improvised backrest. Despite her rather stringent views on personal space and proper decorum, the heiress hadn't pushed the girl away; perhaps she was grateful for the added warmth, or was simply unwilling to say no to those innocent silver eyes.

The fact that Ruby was so docile helped. The little reaper barely said a word; she let her teammates to do most of the talking, and instead took a backseat, chiming in when she had the opportunity. On the downside, she'd also taken to stating at Shirou when she thought he wouldn't notice - and that brought a sigh to his lips. _'Another fan,'_ he thought, shaking his head.

Yang, on the other hand, was a never-ending stream of commentary and vitriol. Her lilac eyes mirrored those of her teammates, and a wry grin split her lips; unlike her teammates, though, she'd taken up refuge beside Shirou. No, he realized - not beside him, but between him and her teammates. Friendly and outgoing she might be, but he would be blind not to notice the looks she was giving him - looks of suspicion, distrust, and confusion.

Meanwhile, Shirou tended the fire, pretending not to notice. He wasn't an active participant in the conversation, merely an observer - though not for Weiss' lack of trying. Yang had been running interference, and strangely enough, Shirou was grateful for it.

Truth be told, sitting by that fire, he felt like an outsider. Yang's attitude enforced that. This scene, this... peace, they shared... it wasn't his, not really. It was not something he could appreciate, not like they could. A sword - for that is what he was - could only dull in peacetime.

And it was a guilty peace. Shirou was an intruder in their lives, an aberration that did not belong; staying would only bring them trouble, painting a target on their back. He knew it as surely as he knew any of the swords in the Archive. Cinder would be coming for him, and he would once again be drawn into the fray. Anyone close to him risked being caught in the crossfire.

His attention shifted to Weiss, settling on her ice-blue eyes -

 _\- eyes framed by midnight tresses, eyes that smiled at him, teeming with a depth of emotion he didn't understand -_

\- and he spoke.

"Feel free to stay for as long as you require," he said. His voice was soft and low, but it must have carried well. As one, the girls turned to him, surprise etched into their features.

Yang blinked owlishly, drawing his gaze.

"That's... weird."

"...What?" He asked, furrowing his brow.

"You're... you're being nice." At Weiss' disapproving glare, she hastily backtracked, wincing. "I mean - okay. The food's great, and the fire's great, you saved our butts, _and_ you killed a dragon. But - where's the snark? The sarcasm? The condescending back-talk? You _can't_ be this nice. There's gotta be an angle here that I'm not seeing."

Shirou shrugged, and tossed another log on the fire. "Tensions are likely still high in the wake of our actions. Leaving you to your own devices, leaving you in that camp, would put you all at risk. I'd imagine that Qrow Branwen and his militia might react... poorly, if something happened to you when I could have intervened."

"Oh. So what you're saying is... you're actually being completely selfish, we're your insurance policy, and this is a kidnapping," Yang scratched her head, and then hesitantly nodded. "Yeah, that sounds a little more believable. But, y'know, Sunshine... I've gotta say, as far as kidnappings go, this one's pretty good."

Shirou scowled at the casual use of his hated nickname. He folded his arms over his chest, and leaned back in his seat, fixing the blonde with a terse glare; it washed over her like water off a duck's back.

"We've seen our fair share of bad ones," Yang continued, gesturing to the rest of the team, a mischievous smirk on her lips. "The food ain't half bad, and you haven't started ranting about your evil plan. I'd say it's been a win, so far."

Shirou blinked, and slowly raised an eyebrow. "...If I had an evil plan, do you really believe I'd tell you about it?"

"So you _do_ have one, then," Yang accused, giving Shirou a suspicious side-eye. "Called it. Well, I'll have you know I'm _not_ a virgin, so you can't sacrifice me to whatever dark gods you worship."

" _Yang_ ," hissed Weiss, suddenly red in the face. Even in a wheelchair, covered from the neck down by blankets, she still managed to make herself look intimidating. "That is _entirely_ too much information. And the notion that he worships dark gods is ludicrous. You can't just say things like that. It's indecent! Have you no shame, at _all_?"

Yang opened her mouth, a snappy retort on the tip of her tongue - but nearly choked, as someone else beat her to the punch.

"...A virgin?" echoed Ruby, pursing her lips. She scrunched her nose, in a way that vaguely reminded Shirou of a mouse. "Is, that... is that like... someone who works in a hospital?"

A pregnant silence fell over the camp, as everyone turned to Ruby. Even Shirou, generally aloof and uncaring about such questions, found himself staring at the girl in disbelief.

"...No. That's a surgeon," replied Yang, slowly. She narrowed her eyes at Ruby, as if searching for some sign of deception... and finding none, she blinked. Then, she swallowed.

"Is it like the fish?" Ruby asked, scratching at her head.

"...That's a sturgeon." Weiss' words were calm and reasoned, much like Yang's, but her placed expression was slowly twisting into a look of horror. "Ruby, I can't believe -... are you saying, that... that you've never had the-..."

Shirou raised his other eyebrow.

"...What?" Ruby asked, blinking. Glancing around the campfire, and noting the disturbed expressions of its occupants, she flinched - and her voice took on a note of panic. "Uh... I mean. I'm team leader, so. Of course I'd... I mean... yes! Yes, I have! I've had it!"

The awkward silence intensified as Ruby began tugging at the strings of her hoodie.

"...Yang Xiao Long," hissed Weiss, glaring in the direction of her blonde teammate. Each word left her lips like a curse. "I can't believe - look at what you've _done_!"

Yang cringed, and held up her hand in a modicum of surrender. "I didn't know!" she exclaimed, "Qrow said that he'd given her the-... oh, no. Of _course_ he didn't. _Motherfucker_. I am going to shove Ember Celica so far up his ass, he'll be spitting buckshot for the next year."

Ruby glanced between Weiss and Yang, her expression riddled with guilt. "I, uh. Is Uncle Qrow in trouble? Did I do something wrong?"

"No, no," said Yang, backpedaling furiously. Her expression shifted from outrage to panic in a heartbeat. "I mean - yes, he's in trouble, but Ruby, you're - you're fine. But, uh, we should... we should probably have a talk at some point. A very _specific_ talk. Just you, and me... and maybe Velvet."

Shirou twitched, and his heart suddenly quivered, an icy-cold knot of dread settling in its depths. Casting a wary glance over his shoulder, he scanned the tree-line, as if expecting a Grimm to emerge at any moment; his hands tensed, in preparation for the arrival of a projected blade.

But his response went unnoticed in the ensuing drama.

Weiss' glare zeroed in on Yang, like she'd just confessed to murder; her hands fisted through the blanket in her lap, until her knuckles were as white as her hair. If looks could kill, the campfire would have frozen solid, Yang would have spontaneously combusted, and Shirou would have been caught in the blast radius.

"...Velvet?" Asked Ruby, tilting her head to the side. As her attention was drawn by the name, she didn't notice Weiss' sudden twitch. "What does she have to do with virginity?"

"Absolutely nothing, and that's the point," replied Weiss, through gritted teeth. Ignoring her team leader's puzzled glance, she redoubled her icy glare at Yang - and silently mouthed the words, _'fix this, brute'_.

Yang swallowed dryly, glancing between Shirou and Weiss; there was no sympathy, nor relief, to be found in either gaze. "Erm... hey, Ruby?"

"Yeah?" Silver eyes fell upon the blonde, beckoning an answer.

" _Virginity,"_ she began, trying not to cringe, "is, uh... one of those things that people have, that they usually don't talk about. I brought the subject up as a joke, but I shouldn't have brought it up in the first place. Sorry. We'll talk about it soon, when it's just the two of us. Okay?"

Ruby glanced around the campfire, taking in the bewildered expressions of her companions... and the little Rose wilted before their onslaught like a kicked puppy.

"...Uh. Okay," she replied, hesitantly.

Yang nodded, looking visibly relieved; the tension in her shoulders eased, and she straightened out in her seat. Weiss let out a slow breath, her anger cooling; she pressed a hand to Ruby's shoulder, giving an affectionate squeeze. And as for Shirou... well, he began kneading the bridge of his nose, in a last-second bid to stave off the headache he knew was coming.

"Children," the swordsman sighed.

"And he's back," Yang announced. With a knowing grin and a mischievous gleam in her eyes, she winked at the Counter Guardian. "Love you, too, Sunshine."

* * *

"...Shirou. I never got to say thank you."

Night had fallen, and the fire had died down to embers. The forest was alive with the chirping of insects, and the cries of the moonlit world; the broken moon was on display, hanging over head, a silent observer, a watchful guardian, bathing the occupants of the campsite in its light.

Shirou met Weiss' gaze, his sunset eyes carefully neutral.

"For saving us," she said, averting her eyes. "For saving me. For... everything. I know it's a little late, but..."

The heiress toyed with her hair, running her fingers through it - a nervous habit, perhaps, one that she hadn't managed to shake. Her ice-blue eyes seemed... soft, if they could be described in such a way; even her scar, jagged and hard, seemed gentler, curving along her cheekbone and gleaming softly in the light of the burning coals.

"Don't thank me," Shirou interrupted, shaking his head, trying to ignore the discomfort, the unease, gnawing at his belly. "Save your breath."

Weiss let out a slow breath. "I can, and I will," she replied, levelly. She glanced over her teammates; her lips twisted into a mild grimace. "After today's... display, there are going to be consequences. Most of what you said was an act, but I think your acting was a little too good. People are going to talk... and soon, they're going to fear you."

"Who says I was acting?"

Even as the other occupants of the campfire stiffened, Shirou remained unmoved; the gleaming coals cast his angular features into stark relief.

"...Wait," began Yang, slowly. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "You're... you're saying you weren't? When you said you'd kill that guy?"

Shirou met the gazes of his companions, one by one.

Yang, upon seeing the steel within his deep-set eyes, swallowed; the light in her lilac eyes dimmed somewhat. She looked at the Counter Guardian like he was a stranger, someone who she couldn't quite understand - someone who she didn't know. After a moment, she glanced away, paling slightly, looking towards her little sister.

Ruby's silver eyes shone brightly in the moonlight, widening in disbelief - and in denial. The little reaper looked incredibly lost, incredibly small, incredibly young. And the look of betrayal on her face, the indignation and _heartbreak_ , was something no girl her age should wear - a sight no man could look upon without flinching.

But Shirou was not a man. He was a _sword_. He reminded himself of that, even as the sisters' stares set his teeth on edge.

Weiss was the last to meet his gaze. But unlike her teammates, who had been stunned into silence, their composure shattered, she took his silent admission in stride; her eyes, once as soft and clear as the midday sky, had hardened into a look of bitter resignation.

Somehow, that bothered him more.

"...Why?" She asked, quietly.

"Necessity," Shirou replied, nodding his head slowly. "If I stood by, dozens of people would have been injured and killed in the ensuing conflict. On the other hand, if I intervened, there would have been no further deaths, and fear would keep the others in line."

His gaze fell upon the burning coals.

"If the death of one person will save a hundred," he said, thoughtfully, "that's a solution worth considering. If it's a safe bet, it's one worth taking. And if I have to wield the blade that carries out the deed, well..."

Nothing else needed to be said.

"That's... that's all kinds of messed up," Yang whispered, shaking her head slowly.

Shirou threw another log onto the fire. "You aren't alone in thinking that. Few, if any, would approve of my actions..."

"...but, at least they'd be alive to complain about them," finished Weiss, flatly, to the surprise of her teammates. The heiress drew her blanket closer around her shoulders, and sighed. "They'd be alive to have that discussion. When compared to the greater evil - the cost of so many lives lost - what's the loss of a single person?"

Ruby made a choking sound. Slowly, as though afraid of what she might find, she turned around. Gazing up at her teammate, and seeing the resolve within her ice-blue eyes, she swallowed. "But, but Weiss," she whispered, her eyes widening in horror, "what you're saying... that's..."

"That's pragmatism, Ruby," replied Weiss, averting her gaze. She brought her hand to her cheek, absent-mindedly tracing the edge of her scar with the tip of a delicate finger. In the dim light of the fire, she looked... older, almost. Aged beyond her years. "A very _familiar_ sort of pragmatism. Shirou's got more in common with my family than he thinks."

Ruby stiffened - and she whipped her head back towards Shirou.

"You can't know that," the redhead said, her words coming in a desperate rush. "You couldn't have known that he'd - that he'd do those things. You can't know that killing him would make that difference."

Shirou nodded easily. "You're right. I didn't know what the outcome of the boy's actions would have been, had I not interfered. What I have, and what I had then, was experience - and an educated guess."

The Counter Guardian returned his gaze to the fire, and he closed his eyes. "Regardless," he said, shaking his head. "it doesn't matter. The boy still lives, and so do you."

"No," Ruby whispered. Her silver eyes grew flinty, sharp - and her voice trembled with a depth of emotion that caught her teammates unprepared. "It does matter. It _always_ matters."

Her claim went uncontested. But the intensity in it drew Shirou away from his duties. Narrowing his gaze, he eased back from the fire, and stared at the little reaper from beneath his heavy brow.

"I don't understand you," she admitted. Her hands released their hold on the fabric of her hoodie - but she was as tense as a bow-string, mid-draw, and her voice was just as taut. "I can't. Not after what I saw. You killed the Grimm. You saved Beacon. You saved _us_."

"And?"

"You're talking like - like killing that guy was an option to _begin_ with," she said, her voice taking on a little heat. "But you have the power to do so much more. You were already _there,_ even before the fight started _._ With power like yours, you could have - you could have stopped Yang, before she broke his hand. You could have held back the crowd, and explained things. You could have done it peacefully, without anyone getting hurt!"

Her hands knotted into fists, and her silver eyes bore daggers into Shirou. But, for all her passion, she didn't make for a very intimidating sight.

"I could have. You're right," Shirou allowed. He rested an arm on his knee, entirely at ease - appearing content, even when confronted with that truth. "But I took a more efficient path, one that involved the least risk, a path in which everyone remained alive."

"Through fear. Through intimidation. And you would have _murdered_ somebody, too." Ruby hissed.

"Yes," Shirou replied. "And your point is?'

"You sound just like Cinder!" Ruby snapped. In an instant, the little reaper was on her feet, shrugging her blanket aside; she stood with her back ram-rod straight, like a soldier on a battlefield, and her voice carried a righteous fury that Shirou hadn't expected from a girl her age. "Scaring people, doing bad things, talking about - talking about killing people, talking about how justice is a _joke_. It doesn't make any sense! You can't be like her - you just _can't_. I _won't_ believe that! Not after what you did!"

"I can't be a bad person because I'm strong enough to kill a dragon?" Shirou asked, steepling his hands together. "Is strength a measure of character?"

Ruby recoiled, as though she'd been slapped.

"That's - that's not..."

"That's not... what, exactly?"

And then, she said it.

"You're a hero!" Ruby stammered, her silver eyes far too wide, her voice pleading. "You saved us - you saved me - _without_ crossing that line! If you can save me, if you can save us, why can't you save everyone else, too?"

A familiar twinge tugged at his heartstrings. A dull pain, an ache of regret, a steel spike thrust into his chest cavity and sinking into his brain. Anger, hot and bright, sparked upon the anvil in his soul. Despite himself, his hands clenched into fists. Somewhere beside him, a woman sucked in a quick breath - and he ignored it.

He should have known. A naive, little girl, caught up in her dreams of grandeur, in her juvenile fantasies of heroism. Riding into danger, flying her colors, smiling and laughing, spouting empty platitudes of justice and mercy. As though such things existed for people like him.

"A hero?"

Those words were bitter reminder of what he could not have. Of the dream he'd been denied, in a life he could barely remember. Of an ideal that had betrayed him, leaving him a hollow shell in a war without end. Of a storm of arrows and blood and smoke and fire and death, of countless lives cut short by _his hand_ , all in pursuit of a goal that was never his to begin with - a goal that could never be attained.

And he laughed.

It started as a low rumble, making its way through his parted lips - and _twisted_ into a dark, _barking_ laughter that ripped through his vocal chords and grated on the ears of those who heard it. It was a laugh of pain, grief, regret - and anger. Seething, boiling _anger._

Then, he stood... and Ruby stiffened, like a deer caught in the headlights. The world seemed to fall away, but for the two of them.

"As much as you might wish otherwise, the world isn't always so black and white." Sunset eyes settled on her, pinning her in place, like nails through the wings of a butterfly.

"Sometimes, people have to commit atrocities in the name of a brighter future. Sometimes, the ends justify the means." He circled around the fire, stalking towards the little reaper. With every step, his brittle smile seemed to crumble, fracturing like stage glass.

And despite herself, Ruby took a half-step back.

"No matter how much you want to, no matter how strong or skilled you are... you _have_ to make sacrifices. To better the world around you, to save others, you _have_ to make hard choices."

He stopped his pacing, mere feet from Ruby, and let out a slow breath; the steam curled up and away into the chilly night air, mingling with the campfire smoke, until the two could no longer be distinguished.

"If you refuse to compromise, if you remain stubbornly intent on losing nothing... you'll lose everything," he sneered. "And at the end of your days, you'll be forced to confront that reality. You'll _choke_ on your hypocrisy, on your arrogance, for thinking that you could ignore reality and its limitations. You'll _drown_ in your flawed ideals, betrayed by your naivete, cursed with the knowledge that you even _believed_ in such a pipe dream."

Ruby shuddered, her eyes widening. A knot of dread settled in her gut, stealing the breath from her lungs and tearing a hole in her resolve. She opened her mouth to protest, taking a stutter-step back - but Shirou continued the assault, pressing his advantage.

"You'll wish for a chance to do things over, but there won't be an opportunity... because there will be nothing left. Nothing will remain of the people you swore to protect - nothing but their _tombstones_ , each one a reminder of your failure."

Someone sucked in a quick breath; they went ignored. Sunset eyes were only on the girl before them. At the mention of _tombstones_ , Ruby's eyes widened. The trembling in her knees ceased; her shaking hands relaxed. Her silver eyes, once haunted and afraid, deadened _;_ they lost focus and drifted, lost within the grip of an ancient memory.

"Because, no matter how hard you try," Shirou spat, muted anger flashing in his sunset orbs, "...you _can't save everyone_. And trying - trying is a _fool's_ errand."

The killing blow was delivered, and it was met with an ominous silence.

"...Ruby?" Someone asked, hesitantly. Shirou couldn't be sure who said the name - all he could hear was the pounding of his heart, all he could feel was the fury, the betrayal, the _outrage_.

It didn't matter who said it. What mattered was what happened next.

At the sound of her name, there was a shift in Ruby's demeanor. Her deadened eyes reawakened with a vengeance - and there was a spark of deep-set _rage_ within them. A rage, a clarity of purpose, to match Shirou's own. And in a movement so fast that it caught the Counter Guardian entirely off-guard, the little reaper raised her arm.

Shirou's vision was filled with rose petals - and before he could so much as _blink_ , an open palm struck him across his cheek.

 _Slap!_

The Counter Guardian's head snapped sideways beneath the blow. He wasn't hurt - it would take far more than the upper-arm strength of a fifteen-year-old girl to leave a mark - but the suddenness behind the blow, the _shock_ of it, took him by surprise.

"Shut up!" Ruby shouted, her teeth bared in an indignant snarl. "You're _wrong!_ "

* * *

Yang watched her sister and her charge disappear into the forest, following the beaten path back towards the encampment.

She knew the two huntresses-in-training would be safe. It was a relatively short trip, after all, and the sky above was lit with the glow of florescent lighting; there was no chance that the two could get lost, and with soldiers patrolling the woods, their return wouldn't go unnoticed. On the off-chance that they encountered one of the lesser Grimm, they'd have backup - and armed or not, Ruby was no pushover; her small stature belied a fierce intellect. Given her mood, the blonde almost pitied any monsters that dared to cross her path.

Common sense held that they'd be fine, but that didn't make watching them go any easier. It went against every protective instinct she had; they were her family, and letting them out of her sight hurt like a physical blow.

But her little sister had grown so much in those last few days - and when her silver eyes had settled on her own, she'd forced herself to swallow her paranoia, to shove aside her insecurity and trust that they could handle themselves _._

Because, wheelchair or not, Weiss could use her semblance... and her little sister wasn't so little anymore.

And so the blonde stayed behind.

Minutes passed. And when Yang was sure the girls were well out of earshot, she turned to her left, her lilac eyes settling on the reason _why_ she stayed.

Beside her, atop a stack of its peers, rested a hardback novel.

It was an old thing, clearly having changed hands many times before it ended up in Shirou's possession; its spine was creased with wear and tear, and the picture on the cover worn and faded. It didn't even _close_ right; the pages had warped, their corners tapered into dog-ears far too many times, and if left untouched, it would spring open - as if beckoning someone to pick it up, to delve within its pages and immerse themselves in the story held within.

Yang ran her thumb across the title. " _The Man with Two Souls,"_ she said, conversationally.

The man beside her, tending the fire, didn't respond; she didn't expect him to.

"I'd know this book anywhere," she continued. "It is - well, it _was_ \- really popular, back at Beacon. Was never a reader myself, but Blake was a fan. Always kept it on her, too, from day one. Whenever she was worried about something, she'd bury her nose in it. Could never seem to put it down."

She felt a pair of eyes settling on her, but she didn't acknowledge them.

Instead, she opened the book - a task easier said than done, with only a single hand. Propping the book between her knees, she hunched over and pushed back the cover with her elbow; then, she pressed her hand into the opening, smoothing out the pages over her knees. Clumsily, she flipped through pages - until she settled on a particular page, about halfway in, and paused.

That page, unlike the others, was tarnished; a ringlet of brown and gold blossomed across the parchment, taking up nearly a quarter of the page. The words within it were smeared and muddied, but still legible, if only just.

"I'd also know this stain anywhere," she continued, smiling softly. "I might've _secretly borrowed_ Blake's copy to see what all the hype was about, and spilled coffee on it. Things between us were a little... rocky, at the time, and I didn't want to piss her off more than I already had, so I never told her. Seems to be the running theme, now that I think about it.

Yang turned, her eyes searching - eyes that settled, finally, on the _pair_ of bedrolls resting not ten feet away.

"She doing alright?"

And again, silence was her answer.

"That bad, huh?"

The blonde bowed her head; shadowed by her bangs, her lilac eyes slipped shut.

"She needs some time to think."

Yang blinked, raising her head - and stared at the Counter Guardian, eyeing him strangely. For a moment, she'd believed he wouldn't respond; more than that, his hands diligently coaxed the fire with cold, clinical efficiency - but his voice was soft, thoughtful. Almost tender, if Shirou could be called such a thing. "Things have changed for her, in ways she did not expect."

"...Yeah. I, ah... I know the feeling." Yang murmured, averting her eyes. She scratched absent-mindedly at the stump where her arm used to be. The motion drew the eyes of her companion, eyes that silently evaluated her - and softened, if only just.

And then, she sighed, slouching in her seat.

"I saw this book as soon as I sat down... and I figured out what was going on. Was gonna thank you, too, until you upset Ruby," she began, her gaze settling on the fire. "I can see where you're coming from, and... I planned on talking with her about that, eventually. Beacon... seeing her friends get hurt, it's put her on the warpath. And me and Weiss are cool with that, but we're worried she might do something stupid if we don't keep her in check. Ruby's never been the most... stable, and she has a hard time communicating with people, so..."

Yang ran her thumb across the page, and paused to collect her thoughts.

"But, the thing is... the timing was terrible, and the delivery - that was even worse. You can be a _real_ asshole when you put your mind to it, Sunshine. Ruby's our leader, and we love her for it, but she's still young. You didn't have to go so hard on her."

"She's a soldier," Shirou stated, matter-of-factly. Shaking his head, and ignoring the girl's frown, returned to his duties. "If she can't handle the truth, she doesn't belong in this line of work. As for your thanks... it's like I told Weiss. Thanking me is a waste of your breath."

Yang observed him for a moment. She observed the look of cool detachment in his eyes, and the way he prodded at the dying embers, coaxing them to life... and as she did, a thought occurred to her. A simple, unbidden thought, powerful enough to compel her to speak.

"Something tells me that it isn't," she said, simply. The book within her hand snapped shut with a muted _thump,_ and she eyed the cover, taking in the battered text with fresh, nostalgic eyes. "The dragon's proof of that. So was that faunus... and so's this book. And... Ruby, too, I think."

She set the book aside; her hand lingered on the cover. "You didn't have to get involved. You didn't have to spare the guy. You didn't have to let us hang out here, and you didn't have to give Ruby that lecture. But you did."

"She's naive," replied Shirou, shrugging, "and if that doesn't change, it'll get her killed."

"What do you care?"

Shirou blinked, and for the first time since they'd started speaking, his expression shifted - into something resembling confusion. He pursed his lips, but issued no response.

"Are you sure there's no point to all of this? To everything you've done, to everything you're still doing?" Yang asked, rhetorically. She leaned forward, placing her elbows on her knees; if she had two hands, she would have folded them together. "And if so - why bother? Why fight? Why stick around at all?"

Silence was her answer, once again - but this silence didn't dissuade her, didn't make her doubt her observation. If anything, it strengthened her conviction, made her more certain of the _truth..._ the truth that the man beside her refused to embrace.

Setting the book aside, she stood, and turned to face the man beside her. With a knowing look in her eyes, she spoke. "Something tells me that you're not nearly as terrifying, or heartless, as you make yourself out to be."

The confusion in his eyes slowly faded, and he shook his head. "Believe what you'd like. One person's naive wishes won't change reality."

Yang huffed, drawing the swordsman's ire. But even as he glowered at her, and his lips curled back into a derisive sneer, she only smiled wider. "It's funny. A week ago, if you'd have given me that speech, I'd have believed you. Now? After everything? Not so much."

Shirou's smirk slowly faded, and he stared at the blonde, his gaze searching. Yang didn't see it, though. Her eyes were already fixed on the road ahead - towards the forest, the path through it... and her home, illuminated by the distant lights.

"I've got to catch up to the others," she said, by way of a farewell. Pausing at the edge of the campsite, she turned - and fixed Shirou with that same, knowing smile. "Say hello to Blake for me... and let her know that I'll be here, when she's ready."

And Yang stepped forward, disappearing into the night.

* * *

 **[Author's Note - Fell the Tempest]**

 **[Hello]:** Hey, everyone! Hope this chapter finds you well.

 **[Updates]:** So, as you can probably tell, this update consists of about three 'mini chapters' compressed into one. And that's why posting this took so long - I wanted to make sure the story stayed true to the characters, the quality never dropped, and everything I wanted to stay made it onto paper before I posted. I sent my beta-reader the rough draft about a week ago, which was only 10,000 words, and in the last five days that number almost doubled. I just couldn't put down. Hope this was worth the wait!

 **[Chapter Themes]:** So, in this chapter, we've seen a little bit of everything. A little humor, happy times, action, drama, philosophy, and character development. (One section is sort of filler, and I was going to make it an omake, but I thought it was worth keeping in the story, just for laughs.) We also got to see a little Shirou, a little Ruby, a little Weiss, a little Yang. I did most of this chapter from Weiss' perspective, because let's be honest - if you get your collarbone crushed, you deserve a little love and attention.

Anyway, each person has had their own reaction to what's happened, their own way of coping and learning from the experience, and we can see those methods showcased here. There's also been a lot of set-up made for future plot, including some special hints regarding Ruby and Weiss, as well as Blake, and two future antagonists.

Much of the action is currently Yang-centric, because... well, she's got a hair trigger, and she's also the loudest of her teammates. I promise, though, that in the coming chapter, we're going to see plenty of Blake, Shirou, and Ruby. It's gonna be a great time. Can't really tell you when it's going to be out, because that'll depend on real life commitments, but it'll hopefully be posted in a month or so.

 **[Re: Reality Marbles]:** Aura is described as 'the soul made manifest, shielding us from harm' in RWBY canon. Every person has one, whether or not it is unlocked. The Grimm, as they do not have souls, don't posses aura. Each person's Aura, when unlocked, acts on its own accord, protecting them from injury. It's a generic form of energy very conceptually similar to Prana, in that it responds to the will of the user, but that will is subconscious. And since most people are concerned with survival, thats what it works for.

Semblances, on the other hand, aren't fleshed out in RWBY canon. They are described as 'unique powers that everyone has representing the key aspects of their personalities, fueled by aura ', and the effects are incredibly diverse as they are mind-blowing. People have everything from echolocation, to flight, to absolute elemental control, to space-time dilation at their fingertips. Just look at Raven _"I'm going to fold space with a swing of my sword and teleport halfway across the world like it's nothing_ " Branwen. Or Adam _"Don't mind me, just absorbing lasers and cutting through an entire forest in a single swing"_ Taurus. Or Yang _"Kinetic Energy? You mean more muscles?"_ Xiao Long.

These powers operate in stark opposition to the rules of the world. They're broken as hell. And yet, people are _limited_ in the scope of their power. Some Semblances (like Weiss Schnee's) are more flexible, but she's still limited to her glyph use and couldn't mimic Yang's semblance of the spent her whole life trying.

So, we've got a power that reflects the wielder's soul, that can't be taught to others, that can selectively alter the rules of reality but only for the wielder... kind of like Emiya Kiritsugu's Time Alter, a localized Reality Marble he deploys inside his body to speed up his perception of time.

Now, keep in mind that this is crossover fanfiction. Everything isn't going to work out perfectly. But the similarities between the two are strong enough that they could be considered parallels - except for a handful of details. Like the issue of how so many people might have access to that cursed power. Or why Semblances don't allow for territory creation, in accordance with the World Egg theory - at least, not from what Shirou has seen so far.

And that also ties into the mystery of Remnant. There are a few subtle hints I've dropped in past chapters which will eventually build up to the reveal of what exactly Semblances are, how they came about, what Remnant is, where Shirou's at, how he came to be there, what his purpose is, and the ultimate choice he'll face. But that's a ways off at this point.

Hope this helps clarify things a bit. Suspend your disbelief! The story ain't over yet.

 **[Cover Art Contest]:** This is the last chance to submit your artwork for the cover art contest! As of the next chapter's posting (which I aim to be about a month from now), we'll be choosing the best submission for the cover.

 **[Remnant Soundtrack]:** More music posted on my profile page! Feel free to check it out.

 **[Rate and Review]:** Be sure to let me know what you think in the reviews! I'd love to hear back from you guys.

 **[Also, Bonus]:** Regarding Reality Marbles... some reviewers made the case that everyone could technically have a reality marble, not just people who are distorted, but most don't research them because they could be useless. In celebration of that, I have a little something special for you.

Enjoy!

* * *

 **[Omake: The Battle is To The Strong, AKA "The Reality of Reality Marbles"]**

Yang Xiao Long stared across the rows of smashed pews and shattered glass. Tucking her hands into the pockets of her leather duster, she squared her jaw, gritting her teeth - pinning her enemy in place with a hateful glare.

"Ooh, somebody's mad," slurred the man, a drunken grin splitting his lips. Saber, armed with his clockwork sword, eyed the blonde lopsidedly. "Whassa'matter, firecracker?"

Their battlefield of choice, an abandoned church, was no coincidence. Ever since the Holy Grail War had begun, and Yang had been selected as a Master, she'd been forced to _adapt_ in order to survive. She'd been forced to make hard choices, to _hurt_ people, in pursuit of the greater good. Every filled casket was a burden, a burden she'd carry with her for the rest of her life - but the goal, the prize, was worth it.

 _This_ particular enemy, though... his death wouldn't weigh on her at all. He didn't belong in this world to begin with, and his death would bring the war closer to its end.

And besides - he was kind of an asshole, anyway.

Yang glanced sideways, her lilac eyes taking in the appearance of her _own_ Servant.

Blue robes, embossed with white snowflakes, flowed about her waifish frame, billowing gently as though caressed by an invisible breeze. Waist-length hair, hair as white as snow, was held back in a side-ponytail; lingering bangs framed a pair of sky-blue eyes, one of which was bisected by a vicious scar.

Weiss Schnee, Caster of the Holy Grail War, met her gaze - and swallowed.

"..Are you sure?" She asked, hesitantly. Her eyes drifted to Qrow, who staggered back and forth, mumbling incoherently. "You - you do realize, that... in such an enclosed space, the result could be disastrous."

Yang nodded, her lips drawn into a firm line. She raised her lone hand, splaying her fingers apart - and the design tattooed onto the back of her hand, the design of a winged insect, pulsed ominously with crimson light.

"Please, Yang. Don't do it!" A voice cried. A pair of hands, small and frail, tugged at the sleeve of her coat, _begging_ her to lower her hand - and a pair of silver eyes filled her peripheral vision. "Y-you could ruin his entire _career!_ "

"That's a risk we'll have to take, Ruby," Yang said, her voice as cold as ice. "By the power of my Bumblebee Badge, I order you – Caster, use your Noble Phantasm. _Destroy_ Servant Saber."

Caster stiffened, her eyes widening. Then, her lips parted, in a high-pitched _scream_ \- and she was suddenly consumed in a retina-searing _explosion_ of light and sound.

It was as though a flash-bang grenade had been dropped into their midst. Yang shut her eyes tightly in a desperate bid to save her vision, and used her flaring coat to shelter Ruby from the blast.

The light faded. The sound died away.

And the girls opened their eyes.

The church was... exactly as it had been, moments before. The piles of smashed and splintered wood remained undisturbed; the windows remained destroyed, and the tile remained scratched and scuffed.

Ruby sniffled, shivering, as her silver eyes panned the room. She clung to Yang, tears streaming from her cheeks, her eyes widening in horror.

Saber blinked owlishly, and quirked his head, staring around the room. Staggering a little, he stepped forward, and let out a barking laugh.

"... _That_... was your... Noble-whatsit?" He cackled, doubling over with laughter. Swaying sideways, he stumbled, nearly dropping his sword - but he regained his footing, and his balance, and slung his sword over his shoulder. "That was... damn. You spooked me good, kid."

Saber fixed Yang with an amused, haughty grin... one that she returned. And as she did, his expression faltered.

"...Wha'd I miss?"

Saber's gaze dipped from Yang, to Ruby... and then to their Servant.

"...Huh. You look different," he mumbled, taking in her appearance. "Blurrier. No, wait - that's the booze. Huh. Is that a word? Blurrier? Sounds like... sounds like a word..."

Scratching absent-mindedly at his stubble, he analyzed his opponent. For the most part, she appeared exactly as she did before - except for one tiny detail. Her eyes suddenly a violent shade of crimson, one as dark as his own.

As soon as he met those eyes, he stiffened. Magic pulsed through the air, his breath caught in his throat, and he felt like his very _soul_ was being torn to shreds. Those eyes _pierced_ him, ripping through his defenses.

Saber didn't know what, exactly, was going on - but he couldn't leave anything to change. Dropping any pretense of drunkenness, he crouched into a combat stance, angling his greatsword by his hip. Channeling prana to his limbs, he braced himself for an attack.

And he was attacked – but not in a way he expected.

Instead of lunging forward... instead of preparing her magics, or drawing her sword... she did something worse. Something far worse.

She opened her mouth.

"You belong in a nursing home, not on a battlefield," she began, conversationally. "But, given your attraction to women with white hair, that's a risk that Vale can't afford to take."

"...Wait, what?" Saber asked, blinking. He stood like that, in his battle-ready stance, looking confused and perturbed. Slowly, he lowered his sword - until the tip was scraping the wood paneling beneath his feet.

"Winter is too good for you – hell, that old _shopkeeper_ is too good for you. At least he's _respectable_."

Saber winced, bringing a hand to his chest. As she tore into his masculinity, ripping his reputation to shreds, the sting of her words echoed in his heart like a physical pain. " _Ouch_ ," he griped, "Snowflake, what the _hell_?"

But Caster had only just begun.

"Hmph. That shirt went out of style in the eighties," she said, dismissing Saber with a jerk of her chin. "Given the unpleasant aroma, I'm assuming that's when you last washed it."

Blinking, the drunken rogue paused... and he actually _dropped his head_ , before taking a whiff of his armpit.

"...You know," he said, after a moment. "Actually, that's fair."

And while his defenses were lowered - Caster _struck_.

"You're a classless lush, who is too busy double-fisting straight whiskey to pay attention to the people around him. You've let down everyone you claim to care about. Your sister... your partner. His children."

Saber let out a pained grunt, and collapsed to the floor, clutching at his stomach. His face smacked into the floor with enough force to crack it.

High-heeled shoes clacked ominously against the tile... and when he mustered the strength to lift his head, Saber's eyes were filled with the of sight pristine, white leather... and a pair of crimson eyes filled with disgust.

"Yes, his children," Caster hissed. "Because Tai has been more of a father to Ruby than you ever have. And you think that a wish from the Holy Grail will fix that mistake?"

Saber swallowed thickly, his eyes widening in terror - and he staggered to his knees, desperately crawling away from the diminutive woman, all but abandoning his sword behind him.

It wasn't to be.

A high-heeled shoe settled on the small of his back, pinning him to the floor. Its owner, her eyes alight with sadistic fury, leaned close, delivering the killing below. "There are limits, Saber, even to divine power - and that's one miracle that it _can't_ grant."

Some careers ended with a bang. Others, with a whisper.

Saber's ended with a reality check.

"Qrow Branwen... y _ou done fucked up_."

And at those words, the Servant broke down, sobbing like a little girl.

He wasn't the only one. Ruby, overcome with emotion, shoved her tear-streaked cheeks into Yang's side. Though, in her defense, she was only fifteen, and she wasn't crying nearly as hard as Saber was.

"Yang... w-what is this? What have y-you... what've you _done_?" She asked, sobbing.

"Do you know who Weiss Schnee is, Ruby?" Ignoring her little sister's sniffling, Yang procured a cigarette from the pocket of her trench-coat.

"She's an heiress. A politician by trade," the blonde mused, rolling the cigarette between her fingertips. "A talented huntress, unlike any the world had ever seen before – and a member of team RWBY. A sister to you and I."

Bringing the cigarette to her lips, she lit it with a flare of her Semblance; its tip burst into cherry-red flame, and the scent of heady tobacco filled the air.

"But, at her core, do you know what she really is?"

Yang took a drag from that cigarette, and then slowly released it; smoke and fire trickled from the Little Dragon's nostrils, an ominous sight, but nowhere nearly as ominous as the slow smile creeping across Yang's face.

Ruby shivered.

"A _savage_ ," the blonde breathed. And then, she gestured to the battlefield - to the sobbing form of Qrow Branwen, and the cold, statuesque figure of Weiss Schnee, whispering in his ear.

"This," she said, theatrically, "is Weiss Schnee's Noble Phantasm... a Reality Marble, one as subtle as it is deadly. It overwrites the world's 'law of the observer', granting her insight into the hearts and minds of her victims, exposing their secrets, their fears, as a candle illuminates the darkness. Armed with that knowledge, Weiss can twist them, warp them, _shatter_ them. And as you can see – even the mighty are helpless before her gaze. For the pen is mightier than the sword – and the tongue is sharper still."

"Mother of _Oum_ ," Ruby whispered, horrified.

"Behold," Yang intoned, a malicious grin splitting her lips. "Weiss' most powerful technique... _Unlimited Shade Works_."


	8. Chapter 8: Partners, Part One

**[Chapter 8: Partners - Part One]**

The lights surrounded her on all sides, boxing her in. Blinded by their glare, she couldn't see more than a dozen paces in any direction; even the stars were beyond her sight, enclosed as she was within the pub. Hot, humid air raked across her skin, greasy and stale, plastering her hair to her neck and sticking in her throat. Nameless figures milled about on the edges of her vision, too many to keep track of – people in bright colors, their faces flushed with drink, laughing and shouting and making so much _noise_. The chaotic mass of bodies twisted and writhed around her, constantly shifting in unpredictable patterns, and the sight made her queasy.

Somewhere nearby, a camera flashed.

The mind of a human being is a complex work of genetic engineering. It processes billions upon billions of calculations at any given moment, ninety-nine percent of which the average human isn't aware of. To call it an organic supercomputer wouldn't be inaccurate.

Her mind, though, was different from the minds of her peers.

When the she became stressed, something within her shifted. Her thoughts would streamline, sharpen; she'd take in her surroundings with a clinical eye and discard any information deemed 'useless'. Targets of opportunity, vectors of attack, environmental conditions - everything a sniper needed in order to _conflict resolve_ floated behind her eyelids with incredibly clarity. Said clarity was what made her an excellent leader on the battlefield, able to adapt and plan on the fly.

However, such a powerful gift could also be a curse.

With so many people in such close quarters, stumbling about, how could she keep track of them all? How could she predict their movement, isolate their footsteps? Her mind sputtered and whirred, erratically jumping between objectives and targets and third-party entities and -

\- ' _I wish Yang were here'._

Random details – the color of a man's shoes, the gait of an injured woman, the smell of dirt and the taste of sweat – pulsed and pounded between her earlobes, seemingly without end. It was like her brain was a printer, and someone had shoved so much paper into it that it jammed. Ink was put to paper, but not like she desired; the colors remained, but the image was fractured, much like her perception, and the flashing of that solitary camera was yet another nail in the coffin.

The clarity she sought, that she _needed_ , didn't come. For the little reaper, it was hell.

"Why are we here again?" she whined. Slouching over the improvised bar, she closed her eyes, bringing a hand to her temple. "I thought we were worried about my head getting better, and all of this noise is really, _really_ not helping."

Weiss rolled her eyes in a very un-ladylike manner, yet somehow managed to make it look fancy. Her hospital scubs had been forsaken in favor of an ensemble of white and blue cotton, cream-colored wool and brown leather. With the addition of a new pair of thigh-high boots – tapering down into lady-stilts, of course, _how does she even fight in those? –_ and in spite of her usual side-tail, she looked like the spitting image of her older sister.

Even more surprising than her state of dress was how the Schnee heiress had managed to find a tailor in the middle of a refugee camp, let alone commission a set of light armor on such short notice.

"Ruby, the doctors cleared you already," Weiss said, disapproval in her baby blues. "I know you're feeling uncomfortable, but right now and it's important that we stay in the public eye. It's part of being a leader."

Ruby huffed, crossing her arms like a petulant child. "Yeah, well. When you said there was gonna be a party, this isn't what I thought you meant. Uncle Qrow already gave his speech, people already cheered and stuff, and he talked about the mission to Atlas they're setting up... which we can't even _go on_ , since Team RWBY's grounded 'til we're combat-ready."

The little reaper fidgeted with her glass, spinning it around and around in her palm. The ice-cold drink within her hands contrasted pleasantly with the stifling heat around her. Hesitantly, and not for the first time, she brought it to her lips – only to recoil before it graced her tongue. The smell alone made her want to gag.

"When you said 'party', I was thinking ice cream, cake, and a few friends," Ruby grumbled. "This... whatever this is... seems kinda pointless. And disappointing. And crowded. And the drinks are gross." She flicked the shot glass, and curled her lip in distaste.

"Ruby, that's moonshine. If it doesn't taste like nail polish, it's not made right," Weiss deadpanned.

Ruby's cheeks reddened in embarrassment. "I – I didn't know!" she protested. "I've never had moonshine before, and... and I just thought the name sounded cool. And I'm a minor! I can't be drinking stuff like this."

"This is private property, and you're a huntress-in-training at a state-certified academy," said Weiss. She answered Ruby's incredulous expression with yet another eye-roll. "Technically, Ruby, we're members of Vale's military. Civilians can't drink until they're twenty-one years of age, but that law doesn't apply to us. It's one of the perks of being a Huntsman... and it's probably the reason why your uncle became one in the first place. As long as you're not consuming alcohol on public property, it's entirely legal."

Ruby took a moment to digest that news, and then glanced up at the nearest server. He was a heavyset man, balding and thick around the waist, garbed in a bright colors and an apron that'd been bleached one too many times. He met her gaze from beneath his heavy-set brow, and gave an encouraging nod.

"...Huh," she said, watching the man busy himself about the compound, serving up drinks and chatting away with the locals. "That's... new. So... you're saying I can drink now?"

"Indeed," replied Weiss. She brought her glass to her lips, taking a sip of her... what'd she call it... _shiraz_ or something? It was some fancy-pants drink from Vacuo, one that smelled like nuts and came in a bottle with golden leaves on it.

That last detail struck Ruby as a little odd. Gold was one of the most efficient energy conductors, and it was also incredibly pricey; why would anyone put it on a wine bottle, when they could just slap it in a magazine?

It'd be a quick upgrade... maybe an hour, tops, with the right tools. And the end result would be an _awesome_ cartridge, one that didn't bleed Aura as bad when you used it to trigger dust rounds. For people like Weiss, who relied heavily on dust-enhanced ammunition, it would be a huge performance booster. Less aura wasted meant bigger glyphs, bigger explosions, and less fatigue in combat.

But for some reason, people would rather spend twice the time - and all that money - making a fancy label for a high society _juice box_.

And people thought _she_ was weird.

"That's why Yang gets away with partying as much as she does, though a Strawberry Sunrise isn't really what I'd called a drink," Weiss mused, her fingers rapping against her wine glass with gentle _plinks_. The sound of ringing crystal snapped Ruby from her thoughts. "And I know this isn't your usual idea of a party, but, unfortunately, this party isn't really for us."

"...It's not?" Ruby blinked owlishly. If the first revelation hadn't shocked her, the second one sure did. "But we're – we're here. And they're serving us drinks. So if it's not for us, then... who's it for?"

"The refugees, mostly." Weiss replied, shrugging in a way that somehow looked refined.

"But we're refugees, right?"

"We're members of the military first," replied Weiss. "All these people... we've made them safe by bringing them here, but they need more than safety. They need the chance to recover, to distance themselves from the tragedy they lived through. Tonight's about giving them that chance. Seeing us all of us Huntsmen, united and alive, it gives people hope."

She leaned back in her seat and swirled her wine glass, like snobby rich people did in movies. But Weiss wasn't a snob – well, most of the time, anyway. She'd gotten better about it.

"It's a morale booster and deters Grimm attacks," she continued. Weiss really loved to hear herself talk, but it was okay, because she had a nice voice, and she knew a lot of really important stuff, even if most of it was boring. "It's also good for Qrow, and the Militia. An event like this – it's a way for him to consolidate power, and show everyone who's in charge."

"...So... team leaders have to show up at parties to promote unity," Ruby repeated, her brow furrowed. "Got it. That makes sense. Unity's important in the fight against the Grimm. But then - not that I'm complaining, since we're partners and all, but why are you here?"

"Ruby. I'm a _Schnee,"_ Weiss gestured firmly with her wine glass,as if those three words explained everything. Which... they kinda did, the more Ruby thought about it. "I'm here because I'm expected to be here. There are hands to shake, appearances to be maintained, duties to be attended to. The people of Vale need to know that the Schnee Dust Company is on their side."

"And you're wearing armor because...?"

"Because hospital scrubs don't befit a Schnee at any social gathering, even an informal one like this, and not everyone sees my presence as a boon," the heiress said, resting her free hand on the pommel of _Myrtenaster._ "After the other day's events, it doesn't hurt to be prepared."

And at the mention of that day, Ruby's thoughts drifted, and she sighed tiredly.

She didn't want to be reminded of that day. Just when she'd thought things were returning to normal, Weiss had gotten hurt, and Yang had put the hurt on someone else. Even if the guy kinda deserved it, seeing her sister lose her cool like that... it bothered her, for reasons she couldn't quite explain. Once again, chaos entered their lives, as unexpected as it was unsettling.

And then there was Shirou, who entered much the same.

Ruby'd seen him, cresting Beacon's ruined tower, raining down judgment on the Grimm. And within the vibrant light of **Caladbolg** , she'd seen something else: a flash of something, something powerful and versatile and _lonely_ , something that imprinted itself into her brain, encroaching on her dreams and re-emerging whenever her savior drew a blade. A desolate wasteland, extending as far as the eye could see, the sky choked with smog... a field, impaled by an endless sea of blades.

Ruby didn't understand other people, but weapons? _Those_ she knew. Steel and silver, gold and dust, miracles and promises and dreams given shape – those she could relate to, empathize with, communicate with. They were like people, but... simpler. Better.

They were made to fight the Grimm, just like she was.

Yang pretended that her little sister was just like any other girl, and Ruby played along, because making Yang happy made her happy. But deep down, she'd always felt like an outsider among her peers, someone who didn't quite belong. Others dreamed of flight, of... of adventures in far away places, of memories with loved ones.

But Ruby was different. Ruby was only four years old when her mother was taken away, and ever since, she'd only dreamed of roses.

Her teammates, her friends, they could teach her how to behave. And she'd learn, because she wanted to fit in, to be like them. She wanted to be a normal girl with normal problems and normal knees, who _got_ things and fussed over cute boys... but no matter how hard she tried, she could never quite manage it.

The harder she tried, the less it felt real.

Maybe that's why she'd been so torn up over Penny's death. She'd known the girl for less than a month, but she understood what it was like, trying to be something else 'cause it's all you wanted to be.

And maybe that was why she'd spent so much time searching for Shirou. The man she'd glimpsed on that barren hill was as much a sword as the blades that surrounded him. His existence sparked a yearning in her, a thirst for something that just couldn't be sated. It was like she'd met a living, breathing _Crescent Rose_ , and the thought sent chills down her spine.

' _Maybe,'_ she'd thought, in all of her innocence, _'he's like me. Maybe he's_ for _me.'_

But his swords, sitting on that hill, rusted and chipped... the mere sight of them _hurt,_ like it was pushing nails through her eyelids. They were beautiful things, and he just - he just let them wither away, crumbling into dust.

Ruby had always cared for her scythe. It was like a reflection of her soul, of her deepest identity - and her symbol of defiance against the Grimm, the only fight that mattered. The thought of letting her baby rust was as foreign as it was terrifying. She just couldn't comprehend it. Some part of her, the part that wasn't satisfied until her weapons were polished to perfection, _pleaded_ with her to speak to Shirou. Because – because she had to fix those swords.

She had to fix _him_.

She didn't know him. She didn't even know what was wrong with him in the first place, or how she was supposed to fix it, and yet... the thought of him nagged at her, like an itch she couldn't scratch, and she wouldn't be satisfied until it vanished.

Days later, she was still no closer to her goal, and she'd paid the price for her altruism. Shirou's actions had shaken her, more than she'd cared to admit... but his words were another matter entirely. His cold barbs and harsh accusations lingered in her heart like poison, corroding her resolve and eating away at her courage. They made her head pound, and her want to cry sometimes, though she'd gotten pretty good at hiding it from the others.

Yang always said, _'strangers' opinions don't bother me, 'cause they don't really know me.'_ Ruby had only known the swordsman for... maybe a week, and she'd only had two conversations with him in that time. Yeah, he had cool swords, and yeah, he wore the best colors... and yeah, he kinda reminded her of Uncle Qrow and Weiss all rolled into one super-tall package, but that didn't change the fact that he was a stranger.

But his words had hurt her anyway, and the sores just wouldn't go away.

Ruby's pained expression must have given her thoughts away, because her partner sighed in turn. "I know, I know. Politics aren't your, ah... _strong suit_. But look on the bright side, Ruby. This gathering represents more than just a political engagement. It's an opportunity to socialize, to meet new people."

She gestured around the packed room, and Ruby's gaze followed. After a moment, she blinked, glancing away.

"You, Blake, and Yang are more than enough for me," Ruby replied, eyeing the other patrons warily. "I'd rather do something fun with you guys. You know, like... childcare, or target practice. Maybe a mission, or something."

The thought of returning to active duty – of fighting against the tide of Grimm, her teammates in tow – brought a soft smile to her lips.

Unfortunately, her teammate didn't share her enthusiasm for the battlefield.

"Weapon maintenance isn't something people do for _fun_ , Ruby. It's a necessity." Weiss drawled, inspecting at her nails. "And while it's admirable that you devote so much time towards your duties as a Huntress... right now, hunting's out of the question, or have you forgotten?"

Ruby shook her head.

Of course she hadn't. She couldn't. Her team was hurt, and it was all her fault. _Her_ responsibility. Because she could have been there, could have saved them. If she'd been faster, if she'd been quicker, _smarter_... she could have stopped Cinder earlier, before she'd crashed the Vytal festival and taken so many lives. If she'd been a better leader, prepared more, maybe Weiss wouldn't have been stuck in a wheelchair, Blake wouldn't have run away, Yang wouldn't have lost her arm, and Penny...

Ruby's shoulder pulsed with cold, and she brought a hand to the joint, rubbing at the spot where she knew the screws were, those metal rods that knitted her bones back together.

"No. I haven't forgotten," Ruby replied, softly. Placing her hand gently on her teammate's good shoulder – a gesture she'd learned from Yang, which was supposed to show comfort and support – she squeezed , she glanced up at Weiss, and gave a reassuring smile. _'It's not gonna happen again. I promise.'_

But Weiss's reaction wasn't the one she expected. Instead of smiling back, or getting mad, she flinched. And she got this look on her face, an odd expression that she didn't quite get.

"Uh, Weiss?" Ruby asked, hesitantly. "Are you okay?

After a moment of silence, Weiss blinked, and her eyes re-focused. "You shouldn't... you shouldn't be worrying about me right now. I'm fine."

 _'I'm fine.'_ Those words...

There was a shift, a feeling like a doorknob turning inside her navel. Colors swirled, and her ears started ringing. The pungent odor of her moonshine was suddenly overwhelming, making her want to hurl.

[' _Is she?'_ ]

It was happening again.

Time seemed to slow. Her focus narrowed, filtering out the unnecessary details, cataloging them and discarding them without so much as a conscious thought. Even as the party raged around them, Ruby found that she couldn't hear the music, nor the voices of the other patrons. Colors sharpened; edges hardened. Phantom footsteps echoed in the silence before they, too, disappeared; they'd vanished entirely from her perception, cast adrift in a sea of static.

And Ruby was taken along for the ride.

The threads of the girl's silken shirt rose and fell, in equal time with the movement of her breasts. Her pale hand trembled ever-so-slightly as it sat upon the pommel of her sword. Her hair, as white as freshly fallen snow, almost seemed to glow; electricity danced behind her ice-blue eyes, and her milky skin glowed in the light of the dining hall. It was like she was coated in a translucent veil of pressure, one as formless as it was _alive_ , shifting and swirling and glistening as it hugged her frame... and within that veil were veins of gossamer spider silk, rippling and pulsing beneath the the girl's skin like constellations in the night sky.

 _'Pretty,'_ she thought. _'If only everyone else could see, they'd understand...'_

Ruby observed Weiss for a precious moment... and then, compelled by a will not quite her own, her gaze lowered to the _variant rapier-revolver outfitted with a six-round cartridge, forged with an alloy of carbon-steel, with an aluminum core for flexibility and silver threading for more efficient Aura conduction, constructed over a period of three months and branded at the hilt with the Schnee family crest_ hanging at the girl's hip.

The room began to spin.

Values and numbers and measurements swam behind her eyelids. She felt hot, so hot, _overheating_. False gears clicked and whirred to life, drawing upon resources that _did not exist._ Visions of steel filled her head, and a sensation like melting ice washed over her, warring with the searing heat, drawing the breath from her lungs in a sharp gasp.

Because Ruby _was_ the sword, and then she wasn't, and it was there, but it wasn't, and something was missing, some _important piece_ that would make things right, but it wasn't her that was missing the part, it wasn't her part to _begin_ with, and -

\- [' _Who does she intend to deceive? Herself? ...Hmph. What foolish pride. Abandon it, girl. Feed it to those Grimm, before it eats you whole.'] -_

\- a sudden pain lanced through Ruby's head. Flinching, she brought a hand to her nose. When she opened her eyes, she glanced at her fingertips.

They came away red like roses.

And as they did, the twisting feeling went away. Movement returned to her peripheral vision; Voices and laughter returned to her ears, along with the clicking of glasses and the footsteps of the wait staff. She could suddenly taste the sweat of the other party-goers, along with the potent tang of her untouched moonshine.

The sensations overwhelmed her, making her head spin, much like they had before. But all of them paled in comparison to the sudden heat she felt: the heat of her teammate's glare.

Reflexively, Ruby dropped her hand below the tabletop – only for her partner's hand to lash out and snatch her wrist, as fast and strong as any cobra. Well, maybe not, but as disoriented as Ruby was, it might as well have been.

"I thought you said the bleeding had stopped," Weiss murmured, her ice-blue eyes flashing dangerously. She studied Ruby's bloodied fingertips for a moment, that damning evidence that gave her guilt away. "We talked about this, and you said the hospital cleared you. Ruby... you didn't _lie_ to me, did you?"

Ruby stiffened.

"Uh... uh... it's not what you think," she stammered. "It's not what it looks like." The redhead jerked her hand out of her teammate's grip and brought it to her nose. The bleeding hadn't stopped, not quite, and the last thing she wanted to do was get blood all over her teammate's fancy clothes. Plus, if she hid it, Weiss wouldn't be as mad, right? Like Blake said, _'out of sight, out of mind'_.

Her efforts, though, went unappreciated; her teammate's glare only sharpened.

"It looks like you lied to me," Weiss said, folding her arms across her chest. Then, she turned away, staring across the bar. "And something tells me it's exactly what it looks like."

"I'm fine! I promise!" Ruby protested. She tried scooting closer to her partner, shimmying sideways in her seat. It wasn't to be, though; any further, and she'd enjoy an impromptu date with the floor below. "Weiss, you've gotta believe me. I _did_ get checked out, and the nurse cleared me. And the bleeding - it's not something that happens all the time, just some of the time!"

"It shouldn't be happening at all," Weiss said, not meeting her teammate's gaze. After a moment, she found her quarry – a nearby waiter. She rapped the table with a dainty finger, and in short order, a second glass of wine arrived to replace the first. Dipping her head politely to the waiter, she let out a slow breath. "Dammit, Ruby. You have to stop doing this. Why aren't you taking this more seriously?"

"Because it doesn't hurt, and I'm fine, so it's not a big deal," Ruby insisted. "I just wanted to come with you!"

Because regardless of her own condition, she wouldn't have let her partner – injured, and recently attacked - attend the celebration alone, where people would start partying and make stupid choices. She'd lost far too many people already, and refused to lose another one. Even if Weiss hated her for it, even if she really was in danger of brain damage, she'd still stand her ground, because she'd already gotten enough people killed.

Weiss let out a slow breath, her pale fingers wrapping around the neck of her glass.

"And do what?" Weiss inquired, appearing deceptively relaxed. But while her tone might have been neutral, and her body language might have seemed at ease, there was no pity in her eyes – and her words were as frigid as the cold outside. "What did you intend to do, Ruby? Sit in a crowded room, nurse a drink you hate, spend the whole time complaining, spacing out and giving yourself brain damage? Is that your idea of _team bonding?_ "

Ruby shook her head fervently. "No! I mean – it's not like that. I didn't think -"

"Of course you didn't think," interrupted Weiss. A condescending scowl marred her otherwise beautiful features, a scowl that struck the little reaper like a hammer to the gut. "Otherwise you wouldn't be sitting here, and we wouldn't be having this conversation. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Annoyance, frustration, reared its ugly head – and for the first time in living memory, her ire was directed at Weiss. It didn't feel quite right, it didn't feel like she should be angry, but – but she _was_. It festered and boiled in her chest, begging to be released.

She obliged it.

"I'd say that you haven't lifted your sword-arm above chest-height," Ruby replied, stiffly. Her words were meticulously chosen, and coldly delivered. "I'd also say that your breathing's shallow."

Then, Ruby leaned forward in her seat, and her voice took on an edge as long and sharp as her scythe. Her silver eyes flashed dangerously, and she scowled. "The straps on _Myrtenaster_ are too loose for a quick-draw. You didn't tighten them enough – probably because it'd hurt, right? You can't draw your sword, and there's no way you can swing it. Not as you are right now."

Weiss Schnee had an excellent poker face, one that she'd perfected over years of politicking. But in that moment, the surprise of being outed by her seemingly oblivious partner – coupled with the sudden _shift_ in her attitude – rattled her, if only just. To her credit, she only had two tells: a slight widening of her eyes, and a nervous twitch of her fingers.

Unfortunately, they were precisely what Ruby was looking for. And when she saw them, she felt... strangely satisfied. It was the same feeling she got when she was hunting, when she'd successfully out-maneuvered her prey and was lining up a kill-shot.

 _['...foolish pride...']_

It was _her_ turn for glaring – and she took advantage of it. "You keep telling me that you don't need help, and that you can take care of yourself," she muttered. "I get why you'd want to lie to other people – 'cause, you know, you're a Schnee and all, and you have your reputation or whatever – but I'm your partner. It's different. You don't have to lie to me, but you did it anyway."

Weiss' glare sharpened; the shot was lined up. All Ruby had to do was bring the hammer down, an act as natural as breathing for the huntress-in-training. So, with Shirou's scowl on her lips, and Yang's affinity for casual disrespect, she did.

"Still want to talk to me about hiding things?" she asked, waspishly. "You know what? Let's. Why don't you start with the story behind your scar?"

 _Crack!_

Weiss' glass shattered in her grip, and her sleeve was stained a vibrant shade of scarlet.

It wasn't blood – her aura would have protected her from physical injury. No, her pristine clothes were suddenly speckled with wine, along with her hand, the table, and the floor beneath it. Expensive vintage dripped like blood from her fingertips; if Ruby were able to understand irony, she might appreciate the sight a little more.

As it was, she felt nothing but a faint echo of grim satisfaction. An utterly foreign emotion, yet intoxicating all the same.

Heads turned in their direction at the sound of breaking crystal. Weiss and Ruby both ignored them all, in favor of focusing on each other; the former pursed her lips, like she'd swallowed something bitter, and picked up her shattered wine glass.

"Was it that obvious?" she asked, quietly, eyeing the fractured crystal with a look of solemn contemplation. The anger in her voice, the pride, was gone – and in its place was something else. Something... resigned, and kind of disappointed.

"We've lived together for a year, you know," Ruby said, by way of explanation. She didn't mention that she'd only discovered those details minutes before, nor did she mention _how_ she'd discovered them. Her... _episodes_... they weren't worth talking about. Whatever was going on with her head, it was her problem, not her team's. Her partner had enough on her plate as it was; _this_ was something she'd deal with it on her own.

Weiss let out a slow breath, and closed her eyes for a bit longer than a standard blink.

"Looks at us." She set the shattered glass down, and began dabbing at her sleeve with a napkin, trying to wipe away the stains before they set. "We've argued in the past, Ruby, but... not like this."

And, abruptly, Ruby realized what she'd just done. They hadn't just _argued_ – no. She'd insulted her partner, baited her, brought up bad memories, ruined her clothes and humiliated her in front of a room full of people...

...Why? Because she was... angry? Because she'd been interrupted?

"Ruby, it's alright," Weiss said, giving her an apologetic side-eye, even as she dabbed at her sleeve. "You're... you were right, though it's not easy to admit. I'm not exactly in a position to criticize you. Though your delivery was a little... tactless, it had its merit."

"No," Ruby replied, shaking her head. Guilt made her insides churn worse than the smell of her moonshine.

"I'm... I was being a jerk. A super jerk. Worse than _Cardin_. I got mad over something stupid, and I took it out on you, even though you were just looking out for me. I'm really, _really_ sorry."

Her hands sought out the strings of her hoodie, a search that she stopped through sheer force of will. Because she did that when she was nervous, and Weiss was really perceptive, and if Weiss saw – if Weiss saw, she'd start to ask questions, questions she didn't want to answer. So she shoved her hands into the pockets of her hoodie and knotted them into fists.

She closed her hands, but her mouth opened of its own accord... and unfortunately, there was little she could do about that.

"Everything's so confusing," she confessed, hurriedly. The words blurred and blended together, to her shame; she'd never been the best speaker. "Ever since Beacon, things've been... different. And I'm trying to deal with it all, but I don't really know how."

It was as much as she could say without sounding like a nutcase... and then, to Ruby's surprise, Weiss did something completely unexpected.

She smiled.

"Sometimes, I forget how young you actually are," the heiress admitted, brushing an errant lock of hair behind her ear. "With everything that's happened, and with the responsibilities of a leader on your shoulders, too... that's not an easy burden. People react in different ways, and... I think this might be... hmm."

Weiss looked at Ruby like her older sister sometimes did. It made her feel nice, but also kinda sad, and she wasn't really sure why. "Have you talked to anyone since Beacon? And I mean _really_ talked, not just passing conversation."

"Not really." murmured Ruby, averting her eyes, "But I don't want to talk. I just want some space, some friends... and no _Shirou_."

Crossing her arms over her chest, she tucked her chin against her breastbone, hiding her pout beneath the fabric of her hoodie. She ignored the way Weiss' eyebrows disappeared into her hairline, and let out a quiet huff.

"I just want to feel normal for a bit," she mumbled. _'Even if it's just pretend.'_

"Alright," Weiss replied, after a moment. "Do you want to get out of here?" She raised her head and peered around the room, taking stock of its occupants. The pub was still full to capacity, and the party was nowhere near close to winding down; it would be a good hour or two until curfew, and it was likely that the revelry would continue long afterwards.

Ruby grimaced. "I mean... I'd say yes, but the party's still going on, and we have to be here, right?"

"Technically, we've satisfied our obligations here... but that's not what I meant," Weiss asserted, shaking her head. Glancing towards the doorway – a pair of rustic, wooden doors, like one might find in a saloon – she pursed her lips. "Don't you live nearby? Patch isn't that big of an island. It might do you some good to get out of this camp, get some fresh air, spend time with your family."

"Well, yeah. I mean, I do. Have a place nearby, that is," Ruby began, fidgeting slightly. "But it's a full day's travel, and that's if I'm using my semblance to speed things up. There's no way to get in a round-trip before the sun sets, and right now, I'm the only one of us who's combat-ready. If something happened... I can't leave you here, alone. I just can't."

Weiss considered her partner for a moment. Then, he shifted in her seat letting loose a resigned sigh. "Well... what if you didn't have to?"

"Huh?"

"We could always go together," she began. After a moment, she cleared her throat, and sat up a little straighter. "I mean... it's not like we're going to return to the front-lines for another few days. Until then, we're stuck here, twiddling our thumbs. Time is a precious commodity, and there's no sense in wasting it."

Ruby sucked in a quick breath. Had her ears deceived her? Could it be true? Was Weiss – was she drunk? And if not, or even if she was...

" _Weiss_ ," Ruby breathed, awestruck. "Do you mean it? Do you really mean it? You actually want to come over? 'Cause this isn't our dorm, it's my _house_ , and you know that we can't make a round trip in a single day without a bullhead, and I don't think they'd give us one to use, even though you're a Schnee, which means that if we went we'd have to stay the night, which means it's basically the same thing as a -!"

"Hold up." She silenced Ruby with a cross look and a raised finger; the little reaper's jaw snapped shut as quick as a mouse-trap. Her eyes went as wide and bright as dinner plates.

"Maybe we could have a... _sleepover_ ," grunted Weiss, "but there are certain conditions that must be met. We are _not_ staying up into the early hours of the morning. I will get my own bed. Cookies are acceptable, but only if they're reasonably portioned. We will _not_ talk about cute boys. And as much as I think I'm going to regret this..." Her lips twisted, and she took a deep breath. "I will... paint your nails. Red, I'm assuming?"

Ruby all but exploded with joy, throwing her hands up in the air. "Weiss, you're the _best!_ "

Weiss straightened in her seat. "Well, someone has to be," she replied, folding her hands in her lap. Her prim and proper posture did little to hide the smugness in her voice, or the dignified tilt of her chin.

"But first... we have to find Blake," Ruby said, firmly. "I know Yang said she'd come out when she was ready, but... I'm done waiting. I'm gonna apologize to her, and I'm gonna invite her along. I mean, you're great, and I'd love some partner bonding time, but I want to fix things with Blake, and this might be a way to do it, you know? It could be a team thing, a way to smooth over all the... you know."

"...Of course." Weiss furrowed her brow, and glanced towards the doorway. Her eyes shifted across the bar, like she was looking for something; when she spoke, it was in a soft murmur, barely heard in the rising din of the pub. "You might you might want to talk to start by talking to Yang. She might have some insight on Blake's whereabouts. Although, we might want to talk to her sooner rather than later... it's already dark outside, and we don't have much time."

"Right!" In a single, excited motion, Ruby leaped out of her seat, knocking it back and away; she bolted towards the door, only just managing to stop inside the doorway. Even then, she was shaking like a chihuahua on a sugar high, and her grin as white and bright as the moon outside. "Come on, Weiss! Hurry up!"

With a gentle rolling of her eyes and a smile on her lips, Weiss stood, and pushed in Ruby's abandoned bar stool. Then, she walked to the door, falling into step beside her leader.

Together, the two of them left the pub, on a search for their missing teammate.

* * *

Blake Belladonna stood on the edge of the rooftop, looking out over the field of lights.

She'd always had an affinity for high places, and for the night. Despite her attempts to hide her nature, she really was cat-like, and not just physically. The darkness was her shield, her home, her refuge; the icy wind at her back was her blessed companion. Unlike her teammates, Blake actually enjoyed the cold; its frigid fingers tousled her hair, refreshing her and filling her with a renewed sense of purpose.

Bathing in the moonlight, she inhaled slowly, savoring the scents of pine and ozone. Below her was the sprawling camp, its cluttered expanse riddled with battle-scarred bullheads, crates and slapdash huts. Flags, as diverse as they were colorful, were scattered throughout the place, showing allegiance to military units and countries the world over.

The sight of those flags filled her with hope. Despite the thousands of deaths, despite the awful, bloody struggle that was sure to come, they were alive. They'd escaped that day, and would live to see another one. A better day, maybe. Once the pain of loss had dulled, there would be unity among the ranks, unity against the Grimm and Cinder and her allies... and when that time came, they would take back what they'd lost.  
 _  
'But not all things lost can be recovered,'_ Blake thought, as stood watch over the barren camp. Distantly, she caught a flicker of movement: two people had returned to the camp, walking side-by-side... and of them was wearing white. A very familiar shade of white.

Panic struck Blake like a lightning bolt, and her heart picked up a dozen paces. Crouching behind a nearby vent, she did her best to conceal herself from view; holding her breath, she peered out beyond the lip of the rooftop.

The two figures stopped just outside a nondescript bullhead. Blake's racing heart quieted, as she noticed that the person in white was distinctly male. She couldn't see his face, not from such a high angle, but her night vision gave her a bird's eye view of his blonde hair, his tail... and the way the girl with orange hair looked up at him, her turquoise eyes shining in the fluorescent lighting.

 _'Sun... and Nora?'_ Her ears twitched nervously. _'What are they doing here?'_

They stopped in the entryway to the bullhead; Sun leaned up against the steel plating of the improvised doorway. His unbuttoned shirt had been traded in for a coat of the same color, in the style of the Atlas military. Nora – dressed in her usual attire - said something, and Sun said something back, just as softly. Even with her enhanced hearing, Blake was far too distant to make out a single word of their conversation.

 _'I wonder what they're talking about.'_

She didn't wonder for long. Something in the atmosphere shifted, and suddenly, Nora took a step forward, tugging at Sun's wrist. There was an exchange of words, of bated breaths and intense looks. The two of them disappeared into the bullhead, drawing a sheet behind them for some measure of privacy.

Then, a light clicked on, and all she saw were shadows... shadows that fell away in pieces, tossed to the floor... shadows that moved, that became one, and drifted to the floor.

 _'...Oh,'_ she thought.

Hurriedly, she glanced away.

Blake wasn't squeamish when it came to... _private..._ activities. They were something she'd become familiar with during her days in the streets, to say nothing of her choice in reading material. Growing up in an environment like desensitized her, taking away her shame – and appreciation – for such acts. Street corners had taught her that love was something bought with liquor and lien; Adam had taught her that love was a tool to be wielded in pursuit of a higher aim. It was only in books that true love existed, and even then, it wasn't won without a struggle.

And the ravenette hadn't been interested in Sun that way, not only thing they'd had in common was their shared heritage. She'd admired him, in many ways, because of his simplicity; because, in spite the hardship that came with being a Faunus in the modern world, he was one of the most upbeat people she'd ever had the pleasure of meeting. The thought of him seeing someone else didn't bother her, not in the slightest. She'd chosen not to stake her claim, and was glad that someone else had. Sun deserved that in his life, especially after losing Neptune.

But Blake was uncomfortable – because she'd accidentally stumbled onto an intimate moment between two friends, a moment that she had no right to witness. She'd already slighted them once by disappearing without a word, by failing to console her friends in their darkest hour, and stepping in on such a private moment-... something like guilt swirled within her gut, and she felt... bloated. Sluggish. Foul.

Her discomfort eased as she remembered the plan. Having a replacement – as cold as that word sounded – gave her cover, and the freedom to do what she needed to. Sun wouldn't miss her as much when she left, and that was a burden lifted.

The camp was mostly empty at this time of night, save for a few guards and those officers who'd stayed behind to handle logistics. Everyone else was celebrating in the nearby town, enjoying the creature comforts of cooked food, music, and alcohol. They would be distracted into the early hours of the morning, which presented a window of opportunity, an opening that she would take advantage of.

The others, whose names she tried to forget, they could enjoy the celebration... and she would give them the best gift she could, a gift to make their celebration all the more enjoyable.

She'd leave.

Her passage had already been secured on an outbound bullhead, courtesy of a private citizen who'd recognized the influx of refugees for what it was: a business opportunity for the morally grey. It had taken her more than a few days to find him without the use of the CCT Network, but her information-gathering skills were second-to-none.

He'd been advertising transportation services for those refugees who wanted to head home and search for their missing relatives. His rates were exorbitant, but his clients were people who weren't in a position to refuse; over the last two weeks, he'd made a small fortune off of the blood and tears of the homeless and the exiled. Rumor had it that he was stripping families down to their last lien, and that he'd abandoned more than one person on the shores of Vale to be consumed by the Grimm in order to decrease his travel costs.

Then, Blake had found him. And unlike his previous clientele, Blake's request was simple: a discrete airlift to the northern coast of Vale. A short journey, by all accounts. And while she hadn't the money, nor the resources to secure passage, she was able to offer him something else, something infinitely more valuable: a favor.  
 _  
_Despite her long-time absence from the ranks of the White Fang, she still knew which phrases to use, which names to drop, in order to perk his interest. She'd laid the bait, and he'd taken it eagerly; he'd been oblivious to her deceit, blinded by the pull of easy money.

He was a human, and he'd aided Blake Belladonna, who was a traitor by all accounts. Once he advertised his deeds to the White Fang, and requested a favor in return for his services... well, Adam would probably handle the man's _repayment_ himself.

Blake was almost disappointed that she wouldn't be there to see it.

With that thought in mind; her gloved hands tightened on the straps of her backpack. Letting out a quiet sigh, she glanced back over her shoulder – at the bullhead, and the shadows moving within it. A bittersweet smile came to her lips, and she glanced up at the fractured moon.

' _I suppose that's my cue,'_ she thought.

Blake stepped back from the ledge, and ran a hand over her gear, making sure she had everything she needed. She'd traded out her usual ensemble for a set of loose-fitting clothes befitting an adventurer, or perhaps a thief; mottled strips of blacks and grey wound about her lithe frame, disguising her weight and allowing her to blend seamlessly into the night. She tightened the straps on her leather bracers, as well as the clasps securing her pack. Only the bare necessities would make the journey with her: her books, two days' rations... and the comforting weight of _Gambol Shroud_ , secured at her hip.

"Only a week, and you've already gotten sloppy."

The voice shocked her into action. And suddenly, Gambol Shroud was in her hand; its barrel was pointing towards the spot where she'd _just stood,_ and the cross-hairs were situated on the back of someone's head.

 _'A man's head,'_ she noted. A man with hair as white as snow.

"Shirou," she breathed, trying to overcome the frog in her throat. Focusing on the familiar feeling of leather grips in her hands, she found her resolve – and the rampant beating of her heart began to slow. "Here to enjoy the view?"

Much like her, he didn't appear to be bothered by the cold; his arms were bare, and he was clothed in that same battle-suit as before. Standing on the roof ledge, he made a show of peering out over the midnight expanse: from the shattered moon above, to the city lights in the distance, down at the packed earth some dozen stories below. With his lackadaisy posture and his hands in his pockets, he didn't seem to be bothered by the gun at his back.

He didn't have any reason to be.

"Something like that," he replied, pursing his lips. "Someone's got to keep an eye on things while the rest of the world drinks itself into a stupor, and this roof is the best vantage point for miles around."

"...How long have you been here?"

"Long enough," he said, shrugging.

"And you're not going to join them?" Blake asked. One of her ears twitched, betraying her suspicion, as well as the nervous fluttering in her belly: her fear of discovery. _'I have to keep him talking. Have to stall, until I can think of a way out of this. I can't risk being caught, not now.'_

"I thought you'd be in attendance – if not for your own sake, then for the refugees'," she continued, forcing herself to relax. But even as her firearm drifted down, towards her side, her finger never quite left the trigger. She began inching her way towards the fire escape, covering the whispered movement of her feet with her voice. "Those people are only alive because you saved them. I'm sure they'd appreciate it if you showed up."

"As you and everyone else in this hole insist on reminding me," he replied, giving her an unamused side-eye. "Every time I hear those words, I'm forced to reconsider whether or not I should have interfered. Letting you all die would have been much easier than putting up with the _adoration_ of the masses."

Blake felt the hairs on the back of her neck rising.

Leaving her team behind had been her own decision, a decision born of necessity. She couldn't stay with them, not with the threat of Adam looming over her shoulders. That being said, she couldn't just leave, either, not with air travel being restricted. The third alternative, living in the camp, would be counter-productive; on most days, you couldn't throw a stone in that place without hitting a soldier, and her plans required discretion.

She needed an alternative, and that alternative was Shirou. His presence deterred most would-be passersby, giving her the time and space she needed to heal... and to plan.

It wasn't like he could refuse her request, either; his character had inspired and instilled fear in equal measure, and the results he produced - saving so many lives, defeating such a powerful foe – had endeared him to most of the Huntsmen. But just as power can bring respect, it also brings fear. Blake had heard faint whispers, stories of Shirou using his strength to put down any who opposed him. According to the rumor mill, he'd lashed out at an innocent faunus over an argument in the community mess, and the exchange ended with the teen's head being nearly cleaved from his shoulders.

So what better way was there to earn the trust of the people by housing a Huntress, and a faunus at that? She'd tracked him down, made the offer, and wasn't at all surprised when he accepted it. For Blake, though, that conversation represented far more than just a change in living arrangements, or a political play benefiting the Hero of Beacon. No.

This was an opportunity for _espionage_.

Few, if any, questioned his allegiance. Blake, of course, was one of those few. How could she not be? Though the rumor mill was often as loud as it was inaccurate, she could believe that he'd do something like that – after all, the white-haired swordsman was a walking reminder of her former partner.

His dark humor, menacing stature, and his disregard for those around him were strong parallels, making her hands shake and her breath hitch in a way she hated. And the timing of his arrival was far too suspicious for her liking. He had saved her, and she believed that he was a part of his plan. What his end goal was, she couldn't be sure, but – but she _knew_ it had to be something terrible, something that no one would see coming.

Yet, she couldn't condemn Shirou, not without proof of some wrongdoing. So she'd spent the week alongside him, observing him, trying to determine if he really was the saint that Qrow and his propaganda machine made him out to be.

And if he _wasn't_... well, he might have been strong enough to kill a dragon, but everyone had to sleep sometime, and he camped far enough away from civilization that the rapport of _Gambol Shroud_ would be lost within the trees. Killing wasn't something she approved of, far from it, but there were exceptions to every rule. Hers was Adam, and Shirou was a potential second. She'd given up a lot for her teammates... and if she had to give up one more thing – if she had to dirty her hands just _one more time_ \- she would.

"Interesting choice of attire," Shirou said, tearing her from her thoughts. His gaze dipped down to her thieves' garb.

"Perfect for a midnight stroll," Blake replied, swallowing nervously. She forced her feet to stop their anxious retreat, forced herself to relax, even as his cold eyes glossed over her, lingering on her weapons and settling on her backpack.

"Must be a long one," he mused. "You prepared quite a bit. Packed your bedroll, dressed for the occasion... and spent the last hour moping on an abandoned rooftop." The words hung in the air like a noose, tightening around her neck.

Blake's ears snapped flat against her head, and her heart skipped a beat. In a sudden flurry of movement, she drew the second half of _Gambol Shroud_ and lined it up with the first. The fact that he could summon swords faster than she could pull the trigger didn't register to her at all; her weapons were her security blanket, an answer to her fears, a cold comfort in a world of shadows and deception.

No. Her concerns, her worries, lay elsewhere.

"So you _were_ watching me," she hissed.

Though she'd long since left that life behind her, she prided herself on her skills as a thief. Her natural dexterity, coupled with her rough upbringing, her semblance, and hunter training made her a natural when it came to espionage and stealth. She wasn't _infallible_ , per se – but she about as close as a person could get, for her age.

Yet, the man standing before her had seen through her deception like it was child's play – and had somehow managed to do it _without being seen_. It seemed she'd underestimated him, yet again, and that notion sent a chill down her spine.

"And you, Blake Belladonna, were watching them," Shirou replied, jerking his chin in the direction of the bullhead and its busy occupants. "If you were planning on leaving, you should have done it sooner. You hesitated, and now, you've been discovered."

Stifling a curse, she took one step back – and then another, until her back pressed against something firm, something concrete. "I'm going," she hissed, retreating further into the shadows, her submachine gun at the ready. "I'm going, and there's nothing you can do to change that. You can't stop me."

"There is, and I could," he corrected. "But if you think I'm going to try, you're mistaken."

Blake's amber eyes narrowed in suspicion, but Shirou didn't seem to care. He walked along the edge of the roof, relaxed and unafraid, even as the wind picked up, buffeting his hair and tugging at his crimson cowl. Stone _crunched_ and _crackled_ with each step he took, and the sound grated on her ears, making her twitch.

He stopped at the very edge of the roof.

"We've known each other for a total of two weeks." He folded his arms across his chest, and fixed her with a disappointed glare. "You're capable of making your own decisions, for better or worse. Mostly the latter, if your track record is any indication."

Memories of Beacon, and the weeks afterwards – weeks spent alone, her every waking moment spent in pursuit of her mission, her dreams as empty as the streets she walked – arose unbidden, and the fall breeze she'd once enjoyed suddenly smelled like ashes, blood, and fire.

"You're right. You don't know me, and you don't know what I'm going through," Blake said; her tone was as frosty as the winter air she breathed. Despite her protests, though, she felt an inkling of doubt throbbing in her chest.

Hesitantly, she lowered _Gambol Shroud_... and then, she averted her eyes. "And I've made a lot of mistakes, but this isn't one of them," she added, a touch more quietly. "It's not what I want, but it's the right thing to do."

She wasn't sure whether those words were for his benefit, or for her own.

"The _right_ thing? Something tells me your teammates would disagree." He pursed his lips. "Then again, you've spent the last week hiding from them. In that time, your partner's been worrying herself to the bone, your leader's blamed herself for your disappearance, and... oh, did I mention that Weiss was attacked?"

Blake stiffened, glancing up; confusion and something like outrage ignited in her chest. For just a moment, she forgot entirely about the plan, about her need for secrecy, for discretion. " _What?_ " She hissed, her eyes widening in shock. "No, that's – I... I hadn't heard. Are they – is she okay?"

Shirou raised a solitary eyebrow, in a way that reminded her of a disappointed schoolteacher. "Why should it matter? It's not like you're planning on sticking around, is it? You're not having a sudden change of heart, are you?"

Blake's eyes widened in shock. "I mean – look, you don't understand. It's -"

"In hindsight, maybe it's best that you leave," interrupted Shirou, his brow furrowed in thought. "A chain is only as strong as its weakest link, and the battlefield is no place for a coward. As you are, you'll just get everyone around you killed."

And then he shrugged. "I suppose there's no helping it," he continued, dispassionately. "Run along. Leave this place. Save yourself, so that I don't have to."

"I'm – I'm not a _coward_ ," Blake stammered. Her ears flattened against her scalp; her canines lengthened slightly, giving her an angrier, more feral appearance. "And I do care about my teammates. I care about them a lot, more than I should, which is why I have to go! Every second I stay here is another second they're in danger."

"So you're running away from your teammates, abandoning the people who care about you, because you're _noble_ ," he drawled. "How... _heroic_ of you. Ruby would approve."

"She would if she knew what was going on, but she doesn't, and I've _kept it_ that way," Blake snarled. "It's not her fight, and if she knew about it, she'd involve herself."

She took a step towards Shirou, and then another. The ravenette knew that he could summon his swords at any moment, and knew that such an act would spell her grisly end, but she pressed on anyway. Because, for all of his posturing, she doubted that Shirou would draw his blades... and because, even if he did, there were worse types of pain than anything he could inflict.

One of them was burning a hole in her chest, and it wanted _out_.

"I'm being hunted by a psychopath," she hissed, her amber eyes glowing with righteous fury, her voice ringing with conviction. "He helped Cinder with the invasion, tracked me down, used me as bait, and took Yang's _arm!_ He'll be back, and I won't let anyone else get hurt because I was too weak to keep them safe! Not Ruby, not Weiss, and not-..."

 _Blonde hair and lilac eyes, sunshine and warmth. Light fingers and a lighter heart. A dull, pleasant ache, tempered by lurking fear and a guilt that set her nerves alight._

"...not Yang," she finished, softly. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "Not again."

Amber eyes slipped shut, and Blake's surroundings were cloaked in darkness. Silence fell, and for a moment, she was all alone; alone, but for two companions. The midnight breeze, ghosting along her arms, and the sound of crunching gravel.

And when she opened them, she was met with a sight that surprised her. Shirou had moved from his roost, and was standing in front of her, the shattered moon hanging at his back. His angular features looked even imposing in its light, and his expression was as cool as the steel he commanded.

"I _want_ to stay with the people I care about," Blake said, glancing away. "But if that means they'll be hurt, then... I don't have a choice. Either way, I lose them. This way, though, they get to live."

Shirou examined her critically... and, a heartbeat later, something in his expression shifted. It must have been a trick of the light, she knew, but... just for a moment, his expression might have softened. He might have looked at her, not like a stranger or a child, but... like someone who understood what she was going through. Like someone she might trust, or confide in.

The moment passed.

The swordsman glanced sharply to his left, his eyes lingering on the treeline – and his gaze narrowed. A scowl split his lips. "Tell that to someone who cares," he said. His words were harsh, but they held no bite, no emotion. "I'm no priest, and I'm certainly not one of the friends you're leaving behind. Your confessions are your business, and theirs. Don't waste them on me."

Blake winced, and her ears flattened back against her head. Her lips parted, and she began to speak – she wasn't sure exactly what she was going to say, only that she needed to say it – but she was cut off by a derisive scowl, and a voice that dripped with venom.

"Go. _Leave_ ," Shirou snapped, coldly. "You're wasting your time here, _girl_... and mine, now that I think about it."

Blake's confusion gave way to annoyance, and her eyes shone with her anger. Shirou, though, made a show of ignoring her; he returned his gaze to the horizon, and remained completely silent, his expression unmoving, statuesque. It was as though she were some insect, some _ant,_ entirely beneath his notice.

 _'I'll never understand why people idolize him,'_ she thought, scowling.

She wanted to hate him, wanted to paint him with the same brush she painted Adam... and yet, she found she couldn't. She couldn't stop his words from hurting, either. For all his condescending remarks, for all his grandstanding, he had helped her, more than once... and as wrong as he'd been, he was right about one thing: for better or worse, her teammates needed to know the truth.

It was her fault that they'd wound up in such terrible straights, and leaving was her way of making amends, of keeping them safe. However, if she didn't at least tell them why she was leaving, it'd just cause them more pain.

If she didn't confront her teammates, she truly would become the coward Shirou thought she was.

Silently, as was her style, she took a step back and triggered her semblance. Darkness swelled around her, licking at her heels, cloaking her from head to toe.

 _'Goodbye,'_ she thought, staring at her savior's back, _'and good riddance.'_

In the blink of an eye, and under the cover of darkness, she vanished.

* * *

The hospital doors hissed open, and Blake Belladonna stepped into the lobby.

The room was barren, aside for a night-shift nurse at the front desk. The flow of refugees from the mainland had slowed to a trickle, and the injured masses had already been treated. Most of those housed within its whitewashed walls hadn't stayed any longer than necessary, and Blake found she couldn't blame them. The harsh scents and the garish lights were murder on her senses, to the point that she was forced to duck her head and breathe through her mouth. Even then, she could still taste the bleach, the cleaners, and the overly-sweet air freshener that the janitorial staff had taken a shine to.

 _'It's bad enough that Ruby could weaponize it,_ ' she thought, absent-mindedly. _'Seems like something she'd enjoy doing.'_

And while her mind drifted, her feet walked the familiar path back to the room.

She could have taken an elevator. Though they were technically only usable by hospital staff, she was in possession of a working key-card, courtesy of the nurse she'd just walked by. However, it was easier said than done; for whatever reason, the sight of the elevator made her queasy. Her fingers hovered over the call button, but she couldn't bring herself to press it.

Instead, after a moment of indecision, she chose to take the stairwell. She ambled forward at a sedate pace, not really paying attention to where she was going; she trusted her feet to take her there. It was pretty hard to get lost in a stairwell, after all, and the simple truth was that she needed time to think.

At no point had she planned on approaching her teammates, not until mere minutes ago. This... last minute diversion, it required a delicate approach. The bullhead she'd commissioned was going to be leaving in the early hours of the morning; and leave it would, whether or not she was on board. So, it fell on her shoulders to... improvise. Complete the objective in as little time as possible, say her farewells, and... and leave.

 _'In and out in ten minutes,'_ she decided. _'That's... that's a good plan. Yeah. I'll just... walk in, and..."_

Taking a deep breath, Blake pushed open the stairwell door and emerged into the newly-minted Resident Ward.

Originally, the west wing of Blackrock Memorial Hospital was designed for patients in long-term recovery, those who required months of physical therapy and couldn't function without around-the-clock care. But there weren't enough patients to justify reserving so many empty rooms, not in the wake of the Invasion. As a result, hospital staff had re-purposed the rooms, outfitting them for use by Huntsman teams as temporary housing.

The Ward was little more than a series of intersecting hallways with linoleum floors and buzzing overhead lights. Heavy doors resided on either side of her, though most of them were shut, and they were too dark to see into, even with her enhanced vision. That notion made her feel... exposed, vulnerable, though she couldn't imagine why.

She put one foot in front of the other, and crept silently through the hall.

And then, in the corner of her eyes – _movement_.

In a single, fluid motion, Blake dropped into a crouch, pressing herself flat against the wall. Her heart was hammering again. She knew she didn't have a reason to hide – not here, she wasn't somewhere she _shouldn't_ be, no one would report her to the guards – but the need to do so gripped her like a vice. Her ears twitched, and to her surprise, she heard a voice. A familiar voice, though not one she expected.

Slinking forwards, being careful not to give herself away, she peered through the glass.

The room was well lit. There was a vase by the window, filled with flowers. A television, playing some black-and-white movie, was crackling and singing in the corner, bathing the the room and its contents in flickering light.

Four cots were scattered across the room. Three of them were empty, and their sheets were immaculate, as though they hadn't seen much use. One of them, though, which was pressed up against the wall, forming a makeshift couch. And on that couch, a large blanket draped over their laps, were two familiar faces... faces she thought she'd never see again.

' _Jaune, and... Pyrrha.'  
_  
The sight was surreal - it was like peering into a snow globe and seeing something beautiful, something too perfect to be true.

The two of them were holding each other, watching a movie, just like any normal couple. Pyrrha was wearing his hoodie, and not much else; his arms were wrapped around her waist, and her head was buried in his shoulder, her auburn hair splayed across his chest and neck.

It was the first time Blake had seen the Invincible Girl without her armor... well, aside from Initiation, anyway. And the sudden contrast between the unyielding amazon and the girl she'd happened upon was so intense that she couldn't help but stare. Even more shocking, though, was how close her two friends had suddenly become. Oh, she'd known about the redhead's crush on her team leader, but she hadn't paid particularly close attention to it... and from everything Weiss had told her about the blonde, he was completely oblivious to her affections.

Beacon must have changed that, and changed it for the better.

The two of them were speaking to each other – and suddenly, Pyrrha giggled; it was a rich, melodious sound. Jaune huffed, smiled, and murmured something into her hairline. Then, he shifted, like he was going to stand up – only to be restrained by a feminine hand pressing firmly into his chest. Pyrrha shook her head, her green eyes shining with amusement, and the boy beneath her sighed, good-naturedly.

Then, Pyrrha brushed aside the blanket – and Blake sucked in a quick breath, as she saw something else she didn't expect... something that sent a chill down her spine, something that shattered the illusion and brought her back to reality.

The Invincible Girl's leg was missing from the knee down.

The disability didn't hold back Pyrrha, though. Smiling, the redhead slid off of the couch, and held up a hand; a nearby cane, one of those bulky metal-and-rubber models used for patient rehabilitation, shot across the room and landed in her waiting palm. Standing, she hobbled across the room and disappeared from sight.

A handful of seconds later, she returned, holding up her prize: a remote control. She staggered over to the couch, and into Jaune's waiting arms, arms that wrapped around her, sheltering her. Pulling the redhead close to his chest, he placed a chaste kiss on her forehead. His smile answered her own, and his baby blues shone with pride.

His lips moved, and he said three words. Three words that should have meant nothing, but brought a smile to Pyrrha's lips – and her lips to his own.

Blake turned away from the door, from the light within, and quickly moved down the hallway.

* * *

All too soon, Blake was standing in front of her team's quarters.

Part of her had hoped that Ruby, Weiss and Yang would be out partying. That way, the room would be empty... so she could stop by, say she tried, and leave. She'd leave a note or something – because it would be easier that way. And her teammates, well, they'd understand.

But things could never be that simple. That was her curse: in the life of Blake Belladonna, everything was infinitely more difficult than it had to be, and always at the most inopportune times.

When she'd arrived at the room, the light was already on, and the door cracked. Her teammates might half left the door open in their haste to leave; if so, the condition of the room wasn't _proof_ that the room was occupied. Maybe it really was empty, and she wouldn't have to step inside. Maybe she wouldn't have to face the music.

Such were her thoughts – until she heard the sound of a page turning, and the squeaking of a mattress.

 _'Someone's here.'_

Blake leaned closer to the doorway, peering through the crack - and her eyes settled the lone occupant of the room... who was, coincidentally, the person who she was the most hesitant to talk to.

Yang was sitting on her bed, facing away from the door. Her hair was damp, glistening with dewdrops from a recent shower; she was clothed in an orange camisole and a pair of grey sweatpants, both of which contrasted pleasantly with her smooth, warm skin. A fluffy white towel lay across her muscled shoulders, keeping her shoulders dry and obscuring Blake's view of her missing arm.

The blonde bruiser hadn't noticed her partner's presence; she was too absorbed in her paperback novel, her lilac eyes dancing back and forth across the parchment, and a pair of headphones covered her ears, blasting an upbeat pop number. Where she'd managed to find a walk-man, Blake had no idea.

Blake tried to remember the plan, tried to recall the preparations she'd made, and failed. The stress of the moment, the fear of what she might face, drove such thoughts from her mind. Swallowing, she stood just outside the doorway, bathing in the harsh light – and tried not to think about how dry her lips were, or how cramped it was in the hospital, or about how refreshing the night breeze would feel on her ears.

Forcing such thoughts from her mind, she steadied herself, took a deep breath, and stepped into the room.

"Yang," she said.

Apparently, the music wasn't playing as loudly as she'd thought – because as soon as the word left her lips, the blonde blinked, and quickly turned to face her. Immediately, Yang tugged her headphones down to her neck, freeing them from her golden locks; her eyes widened in surprise, and her lips parted in a way that belied her disbelief.

The look vanished almost as fast as it emerged, schooled behind a mask of placid contentment, but the damage had already been done. Blake fought to suppress a wince. _'Looks like I'm not the only one who didn't expect this... reunion.'_

"Oh. Uh. Hey there, kitty-cat," Yang said. Her eyes dipped back to her book. She looked... relaxed. It was an obvious attempt at feigning normalcy, as if they hadn't just gone two weeks without seeing one another.

Blake took stock of her teammate, before glancing hesitantly over her shoulder; the clock was ticking, and every second counted. But, if that was how Yang wanted to play it... well, it couldn't hurt to indulge her. It was the least she could do, after making the blonde worry so much.

"Why aren't you out celebrating?" Blake asked, leaning against the door-frame. "Sitting around in an empty room – this isn't like you."

Yang leaned back on her cot, setting the book aside. "Eh. Just didn't feel like going, I guess," she said, with a despondent shrug. "Wasn't really in a party mood. What about you?"

"Actually, I might have poked my head in the door, early on," Blake admitted, crossing her arms beneath her breasts, running her thumb over her elbow. The truth of the matter - that she'd done so to meet her morally questionable contact, to finalize her passage from the island - went unmentioned. "The partying was a little... intense, though, so I backed out."

Yang snorted, grinning wryly, in a way that made her eyes crinkle at the corners. "Here I am, reading a book in a dark corner somewhere, and you're out drinking. What're the odds?"

Blake hummed thoughtfully, and her lips twitching into a matching grin; it was less pronounced, but no less genuine. "High enough, I suppose. What are you reading?"

The blonde glanced down at the book in her lap, and closed it. "Y'know, I'm not entirely sure," she said, furrowing her brow. "It's hard to follow. Too many big words, not enough explosions. The cover's so misleading."

"Well, at least you've got your priorities straight," Blake teased, earning an eye-roll from the blonde. Abandoning her post by the door, she ambled over to her teammate and sat beside her on the cot. Peering over Yang's shoulder, she took a quick peek at the book.

She realized, almost immediately, that doing so was a mistake. There was nothing wrong with the book, per se, or with Yang's interest in it.

Rather, the problem was their old routine.

Before Beacon, she wouldn't have thought twice about sitting close to her partner. It was something she'd grown accustomed to; Yang had insisted on it, back when they'd first been paired together. She'd taken in the blonde's features, but they hadn't caught her eye.

But now, sitting beside her, all alone... the girl's presence was gripping her like a vice, playing havoc with her senses.

The heady, familiar aroma of her floral shampoo was at once intoxicating and stifling; her lilac eyes were as soft as they were terrifying. Her peripheral vision was filled with fine droplets dripping down sun-kissed skin, highlighting her curves and rounding out her edges. The fabric of her Yang's camisole had ridden up, slightly, and the Blake caught a faint glimpse of toned muscle beneath, the kind that romance authors extolled in those books she was so fond of reading. Separated as they were, she could still feel the heat radiating from the blonde, a product of her semblance – and of the shower she'd just taken.

Blake's thoughts drifted to darker, more intimate places, places she hadn't been in years. Places with showers and hot water and girls with blonde hair and - _'what the hell, why I am I even thinking about this?'_

A recent memory, one she'd avoided, floated to the surface of her mind - that of a pair of warm, soft lips on hers.

 _'Oh. That's why.'_

Maybe this was karma, payback for her recent voyeuristic streak. It was all kinds of awkward, not to mention unexpected, and the timing was _terrible_. She tried conjuring another memory, something to draw her mind away from the gutter it had fallen into. Her desperate gaze fell on the book sitting beside her.

" _Ray Bradbury."_ Blake said, stiffly, looking anywhere but at her teammate. She picked up the book, and devoted _entirely_ too much attention to the cover, in a way that drew a puzzled look from the girl beside her. Clearing her throat, she held up the book, gesturing pointedly to the cover. "I, ah, I never knew you were a fan of the classics, or the fantasy genre."

 _'That's it... a nice, safe topic. Fantasy writing. Fantasy... writing. The tame kind of fantasy. Not the other kind. Not like Ninjas of Love, with that one scene where... oh, god. This isn't helping._ _'_

Yang shrugged, and shifted in her seat, trying to get a little more comfortable – oblivious to her partner's plight, and to the way her movement did all sorts of interesting things to her hips. "Eh. Weiss picked it out of the library. Said it was a good read, but then again, this is the Ice Queen we're talking about."

"Oh?" Blake asked. To her everlasting relief, her voice came out normally; she'd managed to hide her discomfort fairly well. "What do you mean?"

Yang let out an exaggerated sigh, slumping her shoulders. "Do you even need to ask? She likes _studying_ , and her idea of a concert involves poetry, fancy suits and violins. I bet she's never even seen an electric guitar before! Or been in a mosh pit!"

"I see," Blake replied. Her prior discomfort was slowly fading, and in its place was morbid curiosity. "And your point is...?"

"My point is, her sense of fun is _the worst_!" Yang exclaimed, grimacing. "This book's... alright, I'll admit that it's interesting, but it's way too hard. She probably thought it'd be an educational opportunity for me, and that's why she picked it out."

"What, that's a bad thing? Giving you something to do?" Blake couldn't help the smirk budding at her lips.

"No, but tricking me? With promise of fun? To make me _learn?"_ The blonde's eyes, wide with terror, narrowed into a look of outrage. _"_ That's downright cold. I just want to grab her by the doilies, hold her up over an active volcano or something, and be like, _'I trusted you!'"_ To accentuate her point, she raised a fist, shaking it in mock-outrage.

And for the first time in over two weeks, Blake smiled.

Oh, how she'd missed this. How she'd missed the blonde's sense of humor. She was like Sun, only... less reserved, more self-deprecating, funny in a way that couldn't be replicated or replaced. There was _honesty_ in humor like that, but even though the truth was often unpleasant to hear, Yang made it sound so nice. It was something she envied in the blonde, something that called her like a moth to a flame.

And, taking a page from her bewildered teammate's book, Blake came to an impulsive decision. Screw a ten-minute deadline. The bullhead wasn't leaving for another hour or two, and Adam was nowhere nearby. She was going to make this moment - possibly the final moment she'd share with her long-time friend - last.

"Hmm. Pretty sure I saw that in a Spruce Willis movie."

"You did," replied Yang, sagely. " _Live Tree or Die Hard_? Based on a true story. Not mine, of course," she added hastily.

Blake glanced sideways at her teammate, raising an eyebrow. "Is there something you're not telling me, Yang?"

"Nope! No secrets here!" Yang chirped. "Weiss and I aren't mortal enemies, I don't have a _'special set of skills'_ , and I didn't sell movie rights to my life story to pay for tuition, if that's what you're thinking. Not at all!"

Then, the blonde flopped back on the cot, using her hand as an improvised pillow. "Besides," she groaned, "if I can't make heads or tails of a seventy-year-old fantasy book, do you _really_ think I could write a screenplay good enough to pitch? Nah. The final draft would look like alphabet soup."

Blake hummed thoughtfully. Her gaze dipped to the book between her hands, and a sudden impulse came over her.

"I don't think you give yourself enough credit... but, since you're having so much trouble with it -" she raised the book again, for her teammate's inspection - "why don't I read it to you?"

Yang huffed, grinning lopsidedly. "Hey, my report card might say otherwise, but I _can_ read, you know."

"I know. I'm still offering," Blake replied. The offer may have been impulsive, but it felt right, so she doubled down. "I'm not sure if I already told you this, but back when I was a member of the White Fang, I used to read to the children. Most of the young ones were illiterate, but everyone loved a story, and I had the biggest book collection, so... one thing led to another."

Memories of those children brought a faint smile to her lips, and her voice took on a note of pride. "I was never good at doing voices, but they loved it anyway. Those were good days."

"...Sounds like," replied Yang, wistfully. "As far as role models go, you're not a bad one. I kinda wish I knew you, before all of... this. Would have been nice, I think, listening to you read."

That feeling from before came back, but this time it was a little more subdued. The closeness that had once shocked her was still present, but this time it hit her like a pleasant tingle, rather than a lightning bolt to the chest. She found herself pushing further, trying to satisfy an ache she didn't know she had... and a mischievous grin split her lips.

She knew it was a bad idea, but she just couldn't resist.

Would curiosity kill the cat? There was only one way to find out.

"Well, we're together now, aren't we?" Blake asked.

* * *

"...I suppose we are," Yang allowed, warily. Her teammate's grin was something she hadn't seen before, and the sight of it unsettled in her in ways she was only beginning to understand.

She sat up, trying to scoot away from that grin... that is, until a delicate hand pressed into her shoulder, pinning her where she lay.

And suddenly, the Blake's golden eyes were close, _far_ too close, and their lips were separated by little more than a hair's breadth. It was an intoxicating feeling, far more potent than the strongest alcohol, sweeter than honey, more pulse-pounding than anything she'd ever experienced on the battlefield.

"So..." Her amber eyes gleamed with something as subtle as it was intense, and there was a low timber in her voice, a timber that made her knees quiver and her breath hitch. "Want to give it a shot?"

"Kitty cat, what..." Yang began, swallowing thickly. Her words, like her resolve, failed her; her stomach began doing back-flips. A sudden heat rushed over her - her shoulder tingled beneath the cool skin of her teammate, and her lips felt incredibly dry. "What were we talking about, again?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about."

Yang couldn't remember the last time she'd actually blushed, at anything, but... here she was, doing it. Clearing her throat, and trying to maintain her composure, she spoke. "Blake," she whispered, biting her lip. "I, uh... if you... if you really wanted to, I'd..."

Amber eyes flashed, and too-sharp teeth were bared. The sight silenced her, not for the first time.

"You'd...?"

Yang's heart began thumping in her chest, at the sight of those razor-sharp canines. She was suddenly acutely aware of her missing arm, aware of the fact that she could really get away if she tried - and aware of how close those teeth were to her neck.

She arched her back and tugged gently at Blake's wrist - but that just drew the girl closer. Everything felt like it was on fire, in a pleasant way, and she loved it, but - but it was intense, so intense that she couldn't bring herself to speak.

Instead, she responded in the only way she could.

She nodded.

"Good," Blake purred. Her lips drew closer still, close enough that Yang could feel the heat of her breath, could _taste_ it.

Yang closed her eyes...

...and suddenly, there was a weight on her stomach.

The blonde stiffened, sucking in a quick breath. A second passed, then two. The sudden tension was unbearable - she wasn't sure what was going to happen, only that it was, and...

...and another second ticked by.

Five seconds later, she cracked open an eyelid - and stared, uncomprehending, at the head of raven hair using her belly as a pillow... and at a pair of hands with that _dust-damned book_ between them, _w_ ith its big words and stupid plot and distinct lack of explosions.

She blinked owlishly - once, then twice - and spoke.

"...Blake?"

"Yes, Yang?"

Amber eyes looked up at her, wide and innocent.

"No. _No."_

"...What?" Blake asked, pursing her lips. "Is something wrong?"

She glowered down at her teammate, ignoring the way her ears twitched - because it sure as hell wasn't cute, despite whatever her accursed brain told her. "You do _not_ get to make that face at me. Not after what you just did _."_

"What I just did?" Blake asked, raising an eyebrow. "All I did was ask if you wanted me to read you a story. Does... does this mean you don't want me to?"

Amber eyes looked up at her, sympathetic and disheartened; her voice trembled, and she brought a hand to her pale lips, stifling a betrayed gasp. She even had the audacity to shy away, like she'd been scalded. For a moment, Yang genuinely thought she'd crossed some line, assumed the wrong thing - that is, until the corner of Blake's lips twitched.

 _'Oh, you little...'_

Lilac eyes flashed crimson, and Yang bit back a curse, sitting up. "You stole Ruby's _'I'm an adorable fifteen-year-old'_ shtick, and use it in the _worst_ possible way."

Blake's eyebrow climbed higher; however, her voice was as flat as the tile beneath her feet. "I'm not sure what you're talking about, Yang."

"One day," Yang hissed, dangerously. She pointed an accusing finger at her teammate, a finger that was trembling with barely-contained wrath. "One day, you're gonna lower your guard. And on that day, when you least expect it, I'm gonna find you. And I'm gonna serve up a steaming hot bowl of _justice_."

"One day, maybe you will," replied Blake, turning a page. Glancing up and into the eyes of her teammate, her gaze took on a mischievous glint, and a smirk tugged at her lips, "but not today. Sad to say, I'm pretty sure there aren't any active volcanoes on Patch."

The two stared at each other, a tense silence falling between them - only for the tension to be broken, almost immediately, by Yang's snort. She flopped back on the mattress, her chest shaking with laughter.

"Guess not," Yang chuckled, rubbing at her eye. " _Damn_ , kitty-cat. You got me pretty good."

"I still don't know what you're talking about," Blake replied, breezily. "I'm just glad you're enjoying yourself."

The blonde's grin softened slightly, and her gaze panned back to the ceiling, tracing the tiles above. The two of them fell into a companionable silence, broken only by the sound of turning pages and soft breathing. And though she normally detested silence, Yang was thankful for this one; it gave her the chance to catch her breath, to cool off and re-orient herself.

She let her thoughts wander, replaying the events that had just taken place... and sighed. Though her teammate's nose was still buried in that book, those adorable ears of hers were on a swivel. She had Blake's attention. _'And now that I do, here comes the hard part: using it.'_

"Not to kill the mood, but... on a more serious note... you probably shouldn't do that again," Yang murmured.

Blake shifted, setting aside her book; she glanced up at the blonde, her gaze searching.

"Moment of truth here: I hate drama. And I hate these words, because... well, usually they don't mean anything good. But I'm gonna say 'em, because they need to be said."

"...Okay. Go ahead."

"We... need to talk," Yang said, grimacing. "You know where I'm at, but I don't know where you're at. That's a bad combination. And... _if..._ we're on the same page, if this is gonna be a thing, there's some stuff we have to talk about. Because this is... fun, and nice, but there's a chance it might not be. We need to clear the air, before anything gets more..."

She gestured vaguely with a hand - and Blake glanced away.

"...complicated," the ravenette finished. Her eyes slipped shut, and she let out a resigned sigh. "I understand. And we will talk about it. Tonight. I promise."

Yang nodded slowly; her expression turned thoughtful.

"Either way," she said, resting a lone hand on Blake's shoulder. The fabric of the girl's strange clothing was coarse beneath her skin, but she didn't mind it - it was a pleasant contrast for the one-armed girl, who'd been trapped in a world of soft and sterile things for nearly two weeks. "For a while there, I was worried that you weren't coming back... that I wasn't gonna see see you again. Whatever else happens, I just want you to know. I'm glad you're here, with me, right now. It means a lot."

Blake's gaze dipped towards that hand - towards those callous digits, resting on the fabric of her shirt - and paused. "I... really missed you, too," she said, quietly. Then, she took those fingers with her own, and a faint smile came to her lips.

After a minute, she held up the book again. "So. Anyway. Are you ready?"

And though Yang wasn't particularly fond of being read to - her recent loss of an arm had made her more than a little hesitant about being helped - the hopeful smile on the lips of the girl she admired was more powerful than any complaint she could have mustered. With a theatrical sigh and a lopsided grin, she nodded. "Sure thing, kitty-cat. Whenever you are."

Lilac eyes slipped shut, and their owner drifted, lost within a story - and the warmth of the hand within her own.

* * *

Shirou kept his eyes forward.

He'd known that Blake was planning on fleeing, from the moment she'd acquired that short-wave radio of hers. The girl had spent many sleepless nights sitting by that radio, listening and responding in kind - and while Shirou's hearing might not be on the level of a faunus, it was damned close.

She'd booked a flight some days ago, and though he hadn't known exactly when she'd leave, he didn't need to. He just had to wait until she packed her books. Attached as she was to them, if she decided to leave, there was no way she'd leave them behind. So, when he'd returned to the campsite from a successful hunt, only to find her books and bed-roll missing... the picture painted itself.

So, naturally, he did what he did best: observe.

The ravenette had made it easy for him. Standing atop the highest building in the vicinity? It was almost like she'd _wanted_ to be discovered, and the way she'd reacted - staying and talking, trying to reason away her departure - showed that to be true. Blake wanted to stay behind; she wanted someone to force her to stay with her team.

 _'Women,'_ he thought, running a hand through his hair. A memory of a familiar face - a beautiful face, with black hair and blue eyes, high cheekbones and thin lips, yet no name - flashed behind his eyelids, and he scowled. _'I'll never understand them.'_

Shirou didn't know why she'd turned to him in the first place, and frankly, he didn't care. The choices she made were her own, and he wanted no part of them. Besides, he'd been alone for as long as he could remember, a faker playing a hero, and...

...and he didn't care. Not at all. He didn't need to hear her justifications and her excuses, didn't need to feel that _pang_ , distant echo of _something_ in his gut. He didn't need empty laughter or meaningless conversation. Those sounds were acid to his steel, corroding at his edges and weakening his resolve. They were indulgences, sins, as unnecessary as they were dangerous.

Steel was useless if it wasn't sharp; he was freed from Alaya's contract, freed from the endless cycle of killing, death and betrayal, but did change the events that had forged him? Did that free him from the knowledge of who he was, of what he'd done? Of what he was made to do?

No.

And so he'd sent her away. Because, distracted as she was, he'd seen something she hadn't: a faint ripple in the air, similar to one emitted by the edge of a _bounded field,_ approaching from the trees. It made no sound and emitted no light, but was heading straight towards them.

Because, as it neared, the telling scent of brimstone scorched the air... and in that moment, Shirou understood what - _who_ \- he was dealing with.

"Impressive."

The woman's voice echoed and trembled in the air, as though it were supported by the whispers of the damned. It spoke of barely contained power, divine in nature... and more than just a hint of madness.

"That pet of yours... she no idea of the danger she was in, did she? How... delightfully _deceptive_ of you. Even a hint of suspicion, and my associate would have killed her where she stood."

There was a flash of light - and his hands were filled with a bow as black as pitch.

"Your associate would have tried," he responded. Glancing to the side, towards the shimmering mass, he raised the bow to shoulder height - and _Traced_ an arrow. It was little more than a throwaway shot, enhanced with explosive properties, much like the ones he'd used against the dragon so many days before.

However, though it was certainly no **Caladbolg** , the concussive force behind such a blast would be her end. Aura was useful at deflecting a broad range of attacks, but it seemed to have two weaknesses: it protected the skin, but wasn't as effective at preventing internal injury, and it could be briefly overwhelmed if a large enough amount of force was delivered to a small enough area of the body. He'd learned as much from his observations of Yang and Ruby.

"Power, wit... and charm, too," the voice replied, with a sultry purr. "I've always had a thing for bad boys."

He knocked the arrow, and _Reinforced_ his muscles to compensate for the draw.

It stood to reason that a single arrow - delivered with pinpoint precision - would be more than enough to injure most humans, even if they had the benefit of Aura. And though his target was still disguised by the _bounded field_ , though her voice was being projected, that didn't matter. He could sense her; the unmistakable tang of her magics saturated the air. All he had to do was follow it to the source.

Child's play.

Raising the bow, he sighted it on the place he knew she was standing, and lined up his shot. And with such a short distance separating them - a handful of meters, at most - the Counter Guardian couldn't miss, even if he tried.

"I imagined we'd meet again soon," Shirou mused, his gaze flinty, "but I didn't think you'd be foolish enough to waltz into the home of your enemy..."

There was a sound like shattering glass... and then, in a burst of flame, there was a smile: a smile that showed far too many teeth, accompanied by a pair of smoldering orbs that longed to see the world burn.

"... _Cinder_."

* * *

 **[Author's Note - Fell the Tempest]**

 **[Hello!]:** Good to see you all again, readers, and welcome back to a new chapter of Remnant.

 **[Chapter Goals]:** This chapter took a turn for the dramatic. That was kind of expected, given the subject material. This is our first look at Blake since Beacon, and also our first peek inside Ruby's head since chapter... three, I think? And also, Cinder!

 **[Ruby]:** So, writing Ruby was arguably the hardest thing about this chapter. It stands to reason that narrating the mind of a fifteen-year-old socially oblivious super genius with ADHD is no easy task. I probably spent a good three weeks on that first section alone.

When Ruby made her debut earlier in the story, we got a peek at what was going on inside her head. However, that took place while she was concussed and stranded in the middle of a warzone. This second look is arguably the first clear picture of what's going on inside her head when she's not in battle, and the narrative style had to change to reflect that.

Also... as for what's going on with her, why she's having nose bleeds and hearing a certain someone's voice... go ahead and place your bets. No spoilers though. ;D

 **[Blake]:** Blake's narrative, on the other hand, was much easier. It's pretty straightforward - a little introspection, a little fluff, some tension, some self-discovery, and quite a bit of Bumblebee. All in all, not a bad day for Blake Belladonna. Things have changed from canon due to Shirou's influence, but will they work out? Will she and Yang sort out the elephant in the room? She's put her foot in the door, but will she stay, or will she leave?

Also, regarding Blake's Semblance. In canon, she has the ability to create copies of herself that are composed of shadow. I'm treating this a a specific form of a greater power: shadow manipulation. In this chapter, she's overlaying herself with shadow, dimming the light around her, and it has the effect of making her blend with the darkness of the night, much like a chameleon.

Semblances are shown to change over time, especially in the wake of life-changing events, (such as that of Ruby Rose, emerging into Volume 4, with her Semblance encompassing flight), and I felt that this would be a natural progression for her: a better, more nuanced use of what she already has, that befits her personality.

 **[Challenges / Being a Guy]:** Aside from delving into Ruby's head and the challenges that presented, there was another challenge that took quite a bit of time: this was also my first time trying to write romantic tension between two women.

Like I mentioned a few chapters back, it seems like a lot of writers fetishize relationships between two women. It's easy to recognize when that's happening in someone else's story, but much harder when it's your own, particularly when you're writing in the Drama genre. The way I write involves getting inside the heads of characters, making you feel what they do, and that complicates things even further.

To that end, I also tried to illustrate how awkward the whole situation is - both for Blake, whose goals are at war with her own desires, and for Yang, whose desires are clear as day, unlike those of her teammate. Tragedy brings clarity; I feel that desire is part of what makes characters human, and I wanted to portray that, without crossing over that line. Did I do a good enough job?

Also, my beta reader never got the chance to look at this chapter, so it might seem a little raw. I'm hoping that I didn't leave any glaring mistakes in the writing.  
 **  
[Supporting Cast]:** Many of you were curious about what happened to the other survivors of Beacon, and I didn't want to leave you unsatisfied, so I decided to include them briefly in the chapter. Not all of the details are there - there are a lot of questions about them that still remain unanswered - but I'll leave those up to your imagination. I find that it's more fun to fill in the blanks that way.

 **[Cover Art Chosen]:** The winner of the Cover Art Contest is ArkT, with his awesome submission. I've updated the story cover to show it, and his name will be featured in the story description. Once again, thanks to everyone who entered!

 **[Shout Out]:** Shout out to Rampant Poultry. His story, **Eugenics** , is still in its infancy but it looks freaking amazing. If you're a fan of Lancaster, or you just like a good RWBY romance, you should swing by his profile and check it out.

 **[Rate and Review]:** You know the routine. Hit me up and let me know what you think, and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.

 **[Also, Bonus]:** The past few chapters have been relatively slow. That's about to change, _hard_. Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen... this next chapter's gonna be a wild ride.


	9. Author's Note

**[Author's Note - Fell the Tempest]**

 **[Announcement: Remnant is currently on indefinite hiatus.]**

There are two reasons for this: firstly, in order to complete the story to the quality I desire, it would exceed 800k words, at a minimum. Using all of my free time to write for nearly six months straight was just enough to produce 80k, and I can't justify spending the next five years of my free time to write a story that isn't my intellectual property.

Secondly, I have joined the Air Force. I will be leaving for basic training in two months' time. I want to make the most of the time I have, and am using every second I have to prepare. Remnant is too big of a project to tackle in that time, even if I were to work on it like a full-time job, so I'm ignoring it entirely. The story will remain unfinished, for now. I may update the story with a final chapter or a plot summary, or it may die on a cliffhanger, as so many stories on this site do. (For those of you interested in adopting this story for continuation / rewrite, I would be happy to pass it on - send me a private message and we can talk shop.)

But I want to let all of you wonderful readers know that I have greatly appreciated your support. It's been a marvelous journey from start to finish, and I've learned a lot from you all. You've inspired me to write more and to better myself as an author, turning a kid's wanton interest into a passion that will last a lifetime.

Also, if you're interested in my other works, **Fate/Hard Knocks** is a FSN/Dresden Files crossover that I do intend to complete before shipping out. It's a shorter story, but with just as much intrigue, action, and character depth. You can find a link to it in my profile.

I know this is sure to disappoint many, and to those who are disheartened, I have this to say:  
 _  
_ _"A battle has been fought, and is now over._  
 _Place your sword upon the ground, and rest in the temporal peace._  
 _After dozing in the warmth of a dream, a new day will begin._  
 _The days keep passing by..._  
 _And we still chase the same star we once saw."_

Thank you, again, for your support - and keep on writing!

Yours,

 _Fell the Tempest_


	10. Remnant Revealed

**[Author's Note - Fell the Tempest]**

By popular demand... _your wish is granted._

* * *

 **Remnant Backstory**

Remnant takes place in a future alternate reality of Earth, one in which Alaya does not exist.

Gaia rose up to crush mankind and engaged in direct battle with Alaya. The ensuing battle nearly wiped the world clean. Type-Moon was summoned to earth by Gaia, and was in turn defeated by Alaya and the forces of earth, resulting in the moon itself being shattered as its spirit was killed. Despite overcoming Type-Moon, Alaya and the forces of humanity were ultimately defeated. Alaya was routed; as a consequence, the Counter-Guardians were lost, their spirits trapped in a world outside of time and space, unable to be summoned to the mortal plane. They can be said to exist, but as they are unable to return to earth, their existence is a moot point.

Alaya lost. That is a fact.. But you can't truly 'kill' a 'god', at least not one who represents the combined will of humanity to survive. Instead, Alaya's power was dispersed among the humans that survived the cataclysm, giving them Aura. This is nothing more than actualized prana. In short, the will of Alaya fractured into pieces and spread out amongst the populus of the earth, giving every single human being the ability to use magic and giving them a passive defense mechanism to defend against threats.

Additionally: humanity is a mystery, a form of magecraft. The fewer they are, the stronger they are, proportionally. This, combined with the blessing of Aura, is why human beings on Remnant fight at such a higher level and are capable of low-tier servant feats.

When Alaya was defeated, shit went to hell in a handbasket. The world was consumed by Gaia's beasts (the Grimm) who roamed uncontested. Mankind effectively entered a second Age of the Gods, and history prior to the cataclysm was lost, buried in the rubble of lost civilizations that had been overrun by the Grimm.

Gaia, in order to lick her wounds, entered a deep slumber; in order to ensure her continued survival – in order to finally crush mankind – she gave birth to Salem.

Salem is not human. She is an Avatar of Gaia, a crystallization of power given intelligence and limited sentience, whose goal is to wipe humanity from the earth. To do this, she is attempting to gather the power of the Maidens. (The maidens are essentially Aspects of Alaya, or rather, 'fragments' of what will become a second Alaya if mankind continues to survive. Each is blessed with power and divinity as rendered by passive human faith.) Salem has a direct line to Gaia's power, has greater control over Grimm, and has the powers of the Spring and Summer Maidens prior to any of this starting.

Salem recruits Cinder to her cause, because Cinder is a sociopath who seeks to leave a great impact on history, to achieve immortality through her deeds, and does not particularly care who gets hurt in the process. While Salem's goal is the eradication of humanity, Cinder seeks to cull the herd and unite it against the Grimm, as this would not only be a great challenge but would also ensure that her legend would live on; both women know that they will have to face the other eventually. Cinder, upon gaining the powers of the Fall Maiden, plans to rebel against Salem and strikes out on her own, knowing that staying in Salem's employ is to court death. Salem knows this, but uses Cinder anyway. It's a cut-throat relationship doomed to end in disaster, but only for one of the pair... and each eagerly awaits their opportunity to take command of destiny.

Shirou, on the other hand, was accidentally summoned by Weiss. Auras are fuel of the soul, and glyphs are a means of channeling that power to achieve a desired effect. In her desperation, Weiss' soul cried out for a hero, "someone who saves humans". However, the summoning was botched, as it was performed hastily. This added the property of "fails in the attempt" to the summons. Combined with Weiss herself possessing Aura, these three factors caused Shirou to be physically manifested on Remnant without Alaya acting as a conduit. 

* * *

**Story Continuation (Chapter 8 On)**

Cinder approaches Shirou on the rooftop of a building on the outskirts of the Patch encampment. She is accompanied by Neo, who used her semblance to cloak a bullhead and allow it to slip into the encampment undetected.

Cinder introduces herself as the Fall Maiden. Knowing of her reputation, and recalling the last time they met, Shirou prepares for battle. Recognizing Shirou's intentions, Cinder issues a challenge, and the two fight atop the roof while Neo uses her Semblance to conceal their actions from outside viewers. A lull in the fight occurs, during which Cinder admits that she doesn't want to kill Shirou: in fact, she wants to recruit him. After having witnessed his fight against the dragon, she recognizes that he can be a valuable asset. Additionally, she empathizes with him somewhat, as she believes herself above other human beings and feels that he must carry the same burden of isolation. She proposes that Shirou join her, stating that her end-game is to unite humanity against Salem and ultimately wipe out the Grimm; when questioned, she says it is because it would be a challenge worthy of her, a game worth her efforts, and through it she would effectively achieve immortality. She would be a hero, regardless of how many bodies were left in her wake.

At this point, Ruby arrives on the rooftop, drawn by the 'smell' of Shirou's _prana_. She is eerily quiet and focused, as though in a trance. Weiss is hot on Ruby's heels, shouting at the little reaper to slow down – that is, until they pierce Neo's illusive barrier, and the heiress finds herself staring at the woman who brought Beacon to its knees. While Weiss is surprised and confused, Ruby is not; immediately reacting to the threat, Ruby levels her scythe at the new Fall Maiden.

Cinder ignores Weiss' presence, stating that her future plans require the heiress, but she can't turn down the opportunity to kill Ruby, the girl that interrupted her attempt on Pyrrha's life, and as such, her life is fires an arrow at Ruby, only for it to be intercepted by one of Shirou's own.

Shirou rejects Cinder's proposal, much to her ire. He reasons that she isn't strong enough to achieve the goal she's set, as she is far too weak, too irrational, and too much in love with the games she plays in order to achieve them. He only aligns with the winning side, he says, as though the thought of Ruby dying didn't just send his heart into his throat. He stamps down that feeling, burying it beneath a will of steel, even as Cinder orders Neo to execute the girls.

Ruby acknowledges that, due to Neo's skill and Weiss' shoulder injury, they will be unable to defeat Neo. Instead, she and Weiss work together, attempting to break Neo's illusive barrier and stall for time until help arrives. However, this is a failing attempt, as the skill gap between them is far too great. Ruby uses her own body to shield her teammate, even as she takes wound after wound. Neo is constantly using Aura to support her barrier, but her agility leaves Ruby unable to land even a single hit, knocking her out.

* * *

 **Fight Scene Interlude**

The short girl lunged forward, striking out at Ruby; a punishing blow to the side of her head. Colors flashed before her eyes. A foot was planted in her gut, and she let out a gasping breath – only to get face-checked by the the flat of Neo's umbrella. Blinded by reflex tears and dazed, she was unprepared for the hook that snaked around her heel – or for the way her legs were torn out from beneath her, sending her spinning to the floor.

She raised her head just in time to see Neo pull a concealed blade. Out of reflex alone, Ruby raised her hand – and the blade pierced through the back of her palm. The force of the blow drove her back, down to the ground, and her hand was nailed to the rooftop. Neo crouched over her, drew a concealed knife at her throat.

She stared at her hand, and at the blade piercing thorugh it – and then up at Neo's eyes, eyes focused on someone in the distance. Neo's lips drew back into a wicked, taunting grin.

She felt... empty. The jagged blade of Neo's knife, so close to her neck, meant nothing. That, in an of itself, wasn't a surprise... and yet, she was still shocked.

'So this is how I die,' Ruby thought. 'I always thought... there'd be more Grimm.'

The blade touched her throat. There was a hot, wet feeling – and someone screamed her name. A familiar voice.

Two ends connected. A circuit was forged. Lighting danced from her brain and into her limbs. She moved. Her impaled hand spasmed, and then clamped down around the blade, as if it had developed a mind of its own. Crying out, a sudden pain lanced through her head – and then her hand, as it clamped down around the blade. It suddenly glowed with neon-green lights, lights that shifted to a violent, ugly _red_... and the blade burst, shattering like so much glass, exploding in the face of its wielder.

Neo staggered away, opening her mouth in the parody of a scream. Ruby, on the other hand, was already moving.

Pain was pain. It was a resource, a number, a defense mechanism of the mind that informed the wielder when they were in danger of bodily harm. Ruby didn't care about all of that – and so she discarded it, as one might toss away used tissue. Ignoring the pain of her mangled hand, she clenched it into a fist and lashed out. Her knuckles impacted something soft and fleshy.

Her body was on autopilot, running through the motions she'd practiced for as long as she could remember. Her Aura had given out before her body did – but that didn't matter. Her body was enough. Her body was her oldest companion, her sharpest tool.

 _Her body was made of swords_.

Calloused hands gripped a familiar scythe... and silver eyes gleamed coldly in the moonlight.

She swung, driving Neo back. Neo was quick, but fragile; her small stature allowed her to dodge most conventional attacks, and she was an exceptionally skilled melee combatant. However, her Semblance wasn't combat-oriented; her illusions couldn't take blows, and also took a lot of Aura to maintain. The effort of maintaining such a large barrier over an entire rooftop was probably draining her immensely. All Ruby had to do was break her concentration.

However, the speed of Ruby's strikes was limited by her lack of aura.

She was bleeding, too, and her throat was closing up. How badly, she didn't know, but she could feel her strength fading; she had to make it count, while it lasted.

After flailing for a short while, she raised her scythe high, for an overhead strike. Neo, seeing the opening for what it was, dashed in, grinning savagely, going for Ruby's belly – only to stiffen as Rub'y gaze sharpened, and the haft was brought down on her shoulders, hard.

The blow wasn't enough to overwhelm Neo, but it did knock her off-balance... and that was precisely what Ruby was counting on. Drawn forward by Ruby's guillotine strike, Neo folded in half around Ruby's knee, to the tune of breaking ribs.

Coughing and sputtering, Neo was unprepared when Ruby pulled the trigger – and the scythe whipped free, drawing a jagged line across her shoulder-blades, piercing through her aura. Neo crumpled to her knees, letting out a silent gasp, her eyes wide.

Ruby spun, took a step back, and planted her scythe in the rooftop. The barrel was pointing directly at Neo's face.

Silence fell.

The two of them looked at each other. The barrier slowly fell around her, glass shattering and drifting like rose petals in the breeze. Neo grunted, falling to her knees, holding the wound.

Ruby stared down at her... and racked back the bolt of Crescent Rose, prepping another round.

 _'Sometimes, to save one person... that means to sacrifice another.'_ she thought.

Neo swallowed, and shut her eyes.

\- _Crack! -_

A cold feeling spread through her chest, and her eyes opened wide: staring, uncomprehending, at the sight of Crescent Rose's smoking barrel.

A barrel that was pointed up into the night sky. Neo stared up at Ruby, eyes wide and uncomprehending. The little reaper looked down upon her, smiling like a benevolent goddess.

 _'But that sometime... is not today.'  
_  
 **Fight Scene End**

* * *

Shirou fights Cinder to a standstill. She isn't as skilled in ranged combat, but her raw power more than makes up for that; as the fall maiden, she's essentially a demigod and walking Mana Battery. The Fall Mantle gives her unparalleled control over fire, allowing her to create and control miniaturized suns that can chew through Shirou's magic resistance like tissue paper. She also passively radiates heat, enough that merely engaging Shirou in close quarters combat causes his armor to char and give off steam; were he not reinforced, he would surely die in seconds. And since the girls are nearby, he can't use any of his big guns – otherwise, their deaths would once again be on his conscience.

As he cannot kill her – the Mantle would pass on – he resolves to cut off her limbs instead. Stating as much pisses her off. Recognizing her pride for the weakness that it is, Shirou attempts to turn her arrogance into her undoing. He baits her, getting her to lower her defenses before summoning Gae Dearg, a Noble Phantasm that can pierce magecraft. It manages to punch through her shield and give her a serious wound. It impales itself into the rooftop.

Around this time, the battle between Neo and Ruby concludes. Seeing the results, Cinder is further infuriated. The barrier has descended, leaving their bullhead and the scorched rooftop visible for miles in any direction... and shortly afterwards, Winter and Qrow arrive, accompanied by a contingency of guards and volunteer huntsmen. Cinder, recognizing that her mission has failed, knows she needs to retreat; even with so much power at her fingertips, she lacks control that could be brought by experience, and with large enough numbers she could be overrun.

She picks up Gae Dearg, takes control of it and corrupts it with the power of the Maiden, and throws it back at Shirou. He is unable to move quickly enough to dodge, as the strength behind the throw is monstrous, and he's low on prana from the fight. His legs are like led weights, and even his greatest shield Rho Aias likely won't hold against a spear designed to pierce through magical barriers.

Winter, recognizing the danger for what it was, leaped into action. Using her glyphs to boost her speed and perception, she tackles Shirou, pulling him to the earth. The spear sails overhead, disappearing into the distance, over the tree-line and towards the coast.

There is the sound of shattering glass. Neo is no longer lying on the rooftop, but is instead inside of the bullhead; Cinder has vanished. The bullhead rises into the air and flies away, uncontested, as the defenders focus on tending to their wounded.

* * *

Blake has offered to read to Yang. It's a distraction from what they need to talk about, but neither one of them will admit it. Instead, they sit side-by-side and chat. Eventually, the ice is broken. Blake finally admits to Yang that she intends on leaving, because she fears she will draw Adam to the team like a magnet and get more people hurt. Additionally, she also admits that she can't afford to be swept up in Beacon's red tape. Yang grills her on her plan, realizes she doesn't really have one, or any resources – and then offers to pitch in, clasping Blake's hand to keep her from going.

Blake flinches slightly at the contact. The memory of Yang's confession – and what happened afterwards - is seared into her mind. Yang apologises for hurting her teammate, and for causing her pain, but not for confessing.

They talk about Yang's motivations. Yang admits that she's always thought Blake was cute – "appreciation for the fairer sex, it's a Xiao Long thing" - although she's fairly certain that Ruby doesn't share her tastes, as Ruby has never expressed attraction towards anything outside of a weapon magazine.

Blake confesses that she's not good at relationships, citing Adam as her only experience (to Blake's hesitant laughter, laughter that tastes bitter). She also states that starting a relationship during a war probably isn't the best idea. Yang admits that she considered all of these facts, but was being selfish, and didn't want to die without telling Black how she felt.

Blake consoles Yang, placing a slender hand on the blonde's shoulder. She admits that she trusts Yang, and that she's not against the idea of a relationship, but also explains that things are a little more complicated. She admits that Adam was somewhat predatory in their past relationship; she was in love with him, but he viewed her love as a means to an end. He used her like a toy, and when that lost its appeal, he used her like a tool in order to advance the white fang. In this way, her war against Adam is personal, and she has a lot of baggage that she needs to overcome before she can feel ready enough to have a steady relationship with anyone.

Yang, all sadness gone, becomes determined. Her eyes flash crimson. "I need you to make me a promise. Stay tonight. In the morning, we'll talk to Ruby and Weiss. If you want to go on your own way after that talk, that's your choice, and I won't stop you. I swear. But you have to give us that chance."

"Us, or 'us'?"

"...Both."

"That's not fair."

"All's fair in love and war, Blake." Blake glances at Yang for a moment - and then looks away, unable to meet her eyes.

"Just promise me. Please."

"...Fine."

* * *

Team RWBY reunites in their hospital room.

Ruby's wounds were mostly superficial. The cut across her throat had bled, but not profusely; Aura slowed the rate of the bleeding, and the paramedics had gotten to her in time, so she wasn't in danger of bleeding out. The cut had healed, though a scar yet remained. She wore a turtleneck to cover the mark, so that she wouldn't make other people (namely her sister) uncomfortable. Her hand was still wrapped in bandages, and would likely be in such a state for a few more days, although it was a price she'd gladly pay again if it mean that Weiss and Shirou were okay.

After brushing off her sister's fussing – and, likewise, ignoring Weiss' concerned stares – she embraced Blake in a massive hug, glad to see the faunus again. Blake, slightly ashamed, admits to the reasons behind her absence.

They have that talk, the next morning. Blake confesses to almost running away, expresses her concerns for the lives of her teammates. She tells them that her ultimate goal is to stop Adam and the White Fang, because what they are doing is wrong. To her surprise, her team commits to sticking with her to the end of the line, because Weiss points out that she's no match for Adam, and they all believe believe that their friendship is worth the danger. Ruby points out that numbers are a huge advantage, and that they're probably going to run into Adam again anyway if he's working with Cinder; Yang remains silent, not wanting to sway Blake's decision either way, although her silence is an argument in and of itself. Confronted with the bewildering mix of support, criticism and _unexpected tact_ , Blake finally agrees to stay with them, on condition: that after they prepare, they hunt for Adam together, and they allow her to take the lead.

Ruby asks why Blake didn't run the other night. After being pressed, Blake admits that it was because of Shirou... and Yang. Yang scratches the back of her head, sheepishly. Ruby doesn't quite know what to make of that statement, and though Weiss gets a nagging suspicion, she can't put it to words.

Their talk is interrupted, however. Qrow stops by their room to say hello and check up on Ruby. He also gives them an update: communications are slowly being re-established at the CCT, and a public broadcast goes out that the siege has worsened in Atlas. Riots are growing steadily worse and the improvised militia is moving out in two days. Their mission: to help take back the kingdom's borders. When Ruby asks to join, Qrow lays down the law, refusing her request with extreme prejudice. He cites their injuries, their age, and their horrible track record, making them all feel like dirt. Then, he eases off, saying that there will be other missions they can take part in, but for now they need to rest and recover.

He leaves, and the four Huntresses-in-training discuss their next plan of action. Ruby decides to go on the mission anyway, in secrecy if they had to – as does Weiss, for personal reasons. Despite their hesitance, Yang and Blake eventually cave. They brainstorm for a way to make it to Atlas, and surprisingly enough, Weiss comes up with a great idea: stowing away in her sister's bullhead. Blake can see reason in the idea, and acknowledges that it would be a decent option, as it would likely undergo less security checks.

Two days later, the four girls sneak on-board the bullhead. They cram themselves into a storage unit; it smells like booze, but they're more concerned about making it into the air. Through the grating, they see Shirou walk on to the bullhead, along with Winter. The girls remain as still and as quiet as they can be, so as to remain unnoticed.

"Let's get moving, then," Shirou says, folding his arms across his chest. "The sooner we get out of this place, the better."

Winter scrutinizes Shirou for a moment, and then sighs. She's in the pilot seat. She hits the throttle and the beast takes off. Nearly an hour passes, as the bullhead soars above the open ocean. Shirou spent most of the ride in silence, staring over the open ocean with a thousand-yard look in his eyes.

Winter speaks up. She asks Shirou why he continues to volunteer and put himself at risk for people he doesn't even know. Shirou ignores the question, deflecting her with practiced ease. Eventually, Winter is straight-forward, admitting that she is grateful to him, and that she wants to like him, but doesn't know whether she should accept his help or not – she can't understand his motivations, or him, and having been raised to distrust everyone, she is taking a massive leap of faith in working with him on such an important task. Their ranks have been filled with traitors, the latest of which brought Vale to its knees, and Winter finds it difficult to trust anyone these days.

To her surprise, Shirou replies with a story about a boy and a cursed fire.

* * *

 **Dialogue Interlude**

"Shirou, would you mind if I asked you something?" Winter asked.

"If you're confident you can talk and fly at the same time," Shirou replied.

"...I talked to Qrow," Winter said, after a moment.

"That isn't a question."

"Why did you volunteer for this?"

"I've been asking myself that since we left," Shirou replied.

"...Let me rephrase that. _Why_ are here, with me, going into a warzone for people you don't even know?"

"Does it really matter? I'm here to help – that's all you need to know."

"No, it isn't."

"You're not giving up on this are you?" Shirou asked, sighing tiredly. "Why so persistent? Can't you just let the matter drop?"

"I can't," Winter admitted. "I'll be blunt, Shirou. You saved my sister and countless others - Why are you so afraid? Why must you live like a monk, driving everyone else away, even as you intercede on their behalf?"

Shirou met her eyes in the mirror, and glanced away after the moment.

Silence fell between them. Winter wasn't sure he'd answer.

Then, he did.

"There was... a boy. A boy who was the lone survivor of a cursed fire, and... he saw Hell. The streets were ablaze. Smoke blotted out the stars. The screams of the dying rang like birdsong. Bones crunched beneath his feet. He threw pieces of himself into the fire to stay alive. His anger. His fear... his hope. All of it went into the blaze, until there was nothing left."

Winter blinked.

"When he woke up, the first thing he saw was the face of his savior. He saw a look of joy on that man's face, a joy so profound, he couldn't help but think – _I want to feel like that_."

Winter's eyes strayed from the sea – and focused on Shirou's.

 **Interlude End**

* * *

Winter was distracted, entranced, by the tale – and as a result, she wasn't paying enough attention to her driving. The bullhead dipped, jerking violently, as turbulence struck the craft. Ruby stumbles and strikes the storage locker door from the inside. Winter missed it, but Shirou's eyes immediately snap to her position; she can feel his gaze boring into her through the gap.

Scowling, Shirou stalks over to the storage compartment and opens it. He finds the entirety of Team RWBY there, looking pale and afraid – with the exception of Yang, who smiles sheepishly, and tries to blow off what they just did. Shirou orders them out of the cabinet, which prompts a shouting match between Winter and Weiss, in which Winter critizes her sister for being foolish, and Weiss confesses that she can't stand the thought of not helping out the people of her homeland. Winter swallows her anger, admits that it's too late to turn around, and permits the Huntresses-in-Training to stay on the ship. They would follow her orders, and /only/ her orders, or else they'd be turned over for a military tribunal when they returned. (This threat is only a half-jest, something that everyone except Ruby notices; Winter takes her sister's well-being seriously, and will do what she has to in order to keep Weiss alive.)

They arrive at the borders of Atlas. Nevermores flock through the sky, engaged in fierce battles with the Atlesian Air Force. They skirt the fighting, heading further away from Atlas and into the land outside it. Grimm are swarming by the thousands, a sea of black, white and beady red.

Winter informs the group that they aren't here to fight the battle, but to rescue a person of importance from a Dust processing facility that had been overwhelmed by the Grimm. A larger force would have been noticed by the Grimm, but with only a single bullhead, their odds of detection were fairly low. She and Shirou had been tasked with doing it because of their relative strength.

"Limit your use of attacks that can destroy terrain. The facility we'll be landing at will contain hazardous amounts of explosive compounds, mostly Red Dust. If you so much as light a match in the wrong place, the entire facility could go sky-high, along with the mining network below-ground, which could suffer systemic collapse. Our target would be killed, along with hundreds of trapped workers, and hundreds more soldiers fighting on the surface."

"Understood. And what is the identity of our... target?"

Winter's gaze hardened. "...My father. Jacques Schnee."

* * *

They approach the mine and see a second warzone. The mine emerges from the barren tundra like a cancerous tumor of steel and smoke. Grimm leap and claw their way over massive fences, doing battle with automated turrets and a handful of soldiers. Grimm flock to the area, drawn like vultures to rotting meat. The bullhead doors open and Shirou uses his arrows to clear a landing path, picking Nevermores out of the sky, while Winter guides the bullhead down.

The bullhead lands. Jacques runs towards the bullhead, accompanied by a handful of miners; despite the team's best efforts, all but two of the miners are killed. Jacques makes it to the bullhead, along with one of the miners; the second miner grabs the hand of the first, and Winter begins to take off. However, a Beowolf throws itself into the engine, causing a massive explosion. The plane lists to the side, the remaining engine straining to carry the weight of so many passengers. They need to lighten their load. Ruby steps forward, looking like she's going to jump off, but she is held back by Shirou. Because Shirou is occupied, he is unable to intervene when Jacques _shoots the miner_ with a pistol concealed in his suitcoat. The miner lets out a choking cough and topples out of the bullhead, accompanied by his friend, who lets out a chilling scream as he falls into the pit of Beowolves below.

Ruby blames herself – if she and team RWBY hadn't come along, the miners would have been just fine. Blake blames Jacques for what he's done, accusing him of hating the faunus. Jacques admits that it's nothing of the sort, and says that he is too valuable to lose to the Grimm; what is the worth of one life against his life, he who can single-handedly support the last of mankind's defenders? It is bitterly cold human calculus, but one that Jacques seemingly has no trouble with. He chuckles at Blake's anger, and relishes in lording his status over the others in the bullhead. "History will absolve me, and the world will thank you all for your service."

The ride back home was silent.

* * *

An invisible tension hovered over the team. They'd completed their mission, but their victory tasted like ash in their mouths. Jacques instructs Winter to return him to Atlas; he needs to return to his work, as his shareholders have likely noticed his absence, and profits will tank. When accused of being selfish, he replies that if his shareholders lose confidence in the Schnee Empire's ability to deliver dust, the market will crash, and with that loss, Vale and Atlas will lose their ability to access Dust at such affordable prices. This will cripple the military, and many lives will be lost unnecessarily.

The bullhead lands in Atlas, and Jacques instructs Weiss to accompany him – to leave her team and return home. Weiss is shocked, and hesitates. Jacques tells her that he wants her to be safe, and that he can provide safe haven for her while the war goes on. When Weiss insists that her team needs her, and that duty calls, Jacques replies that her duty is to the Schnee empire; she has spent enough of her youth galavanting around, playing hero. He thought that the danger of such a lifestyle would educate her, convince her to fall in line – but it hasn't, and so she must be in need of a proper education. "You've known these people for six months. What kind of monster would choose such people over their own legacy?" And that is the crux of the matter – he doesn't want to keep Weiss safe, he wants to keep his legacy intact, to hell with his daughter's well-being.

Weiss composure begins to crack, and eventually, it shatters completely. She challenges her father, who's being dismissive of all the people here, and all of the faunus. He reminds her that she has a duty to her family. She replies that her duty is to the people here, human and faunus alike – and to her friends, who have just been through hell. Meanwhile, her father has been sitting comfortably in his office. If her father needs her help, he can wait in line. Weiss' father doesn't take kindly to that; he states that his profit margins have suffered and that dozens of factories have been destroyed in the fall of Vale, and dozens more were crippled in the riots that followed. The world is on the brink of collapse – and all Weiss can think about is herself. He cites her increasingly rebellious behavior, how he never should have let her go to Beacon, and Weiss snaps that it was the best thing that ever happened to her. It opened her eyes to how the world really is – and how the faunus have been mistreated by her father's company. Her father states that sacrifices are necessary in order to provide reasonably priced dust to the world; if they paid faunus workers the same amount, nations would enter crippling debt trying to sustain themselves, and the global economy would collapse. The Grimm would capitalize on the suffering and wreak havoc across the world. Better that a few suffer than everyone die; those are the sacrifices that must be made. Weiss snaps back, telling him that he's one to speak of sacrifice, wearing a ten-thousand lien suit, flying in on a requisitioned bullhead, ignoring the lockdown, while people are dying in droves outside the gates. Doesn't that matter to him? Doesn't he have a problem playing God? He states that no – he doesn't. Better some mutt bite the bullet than his own children. And since he is bearing the burden of the world, it only makes sense that he profit for his good work. That's the way it should be. Weiss glares up at her father, and her voice is as cold as ice. "Your words are as empty as your conscience. Where is the vaunted honor of the Schnee family? I see no honor here."

Jacques, enraged at his daughter's rebellion, callenges her to a duel. He will have her fight a designated champion, just as before. Should she win, she may go her own way. Should she lose, she'll be _taken_. Weiss accepts, more out of impulse than anything else, and her father nods. Then, he turns to Winter and says, "Tomorrow, you fight Weiss. Hold back, and I'll revoke your inheritance rights. I trust you'll make the right decision."

* * *

 **Atlas**

The team is in Atlas, residing in a hotel. It's a fancy place, paid for by Jacques; Weiss lets the group know that it is an intimidation tactic, and an insult to boot. Yang, Ruby, and Blake are trying to plan something out, some solution to this crazy situation, but can't think of anything that would work; Weiss is spending some time alone in her room, seeking peace and quiet.

Ruby, Yang and Blake approach Shirou, and ask him what they should do. "Nothing." This is a fight that is hers and hers alone. It's something that she has to do, and she _alone_ has to do. Should she ask for help, that's another matter entirely. Shirou lacks pride in himself – but he can still see it in other people. This is more than a fight for survival: this is a matter of pride. If Weiss herself does not overcome this obstacle, the victory will mean little. He then says that the best thing they can do is support her, and trust in her to find a happy ending.

"And what happens if she loses? What if she ends up in danger?"

Shirou furrows his brow. "Leave that to me."

Morning comes. Ruby, Yang, Shirou and Blake arrive at the Schnee Manor. They enter the courtyard, a vast stage of marble surrounded by columns and evergreen trees. Snow gently falls, giving the battlefield a tranquil appearance. But the environment is anything but peaceful. Winter is there, sword drawn; she appears pale, but her features are hard, her expression blank. Weiss steps into the arena and draws her rapier. Winter apologizes, and Weiss accepts it; she encourages her sister to fight as hard as she can. Winter accepts, and strikes fast, hoping to overwhelm her sister instead of dragging out the fight, avoiding Weiss further heartache. But Weiss fights, hard, managing to hold her own – if barely. She falls, time and time again, but she refuses to submit. Each time she is knocked down, wounded, she returns to her feet. With each strike, Winter's hand trembles around the hilts of her twin swords, as she finds it harder and harder to strike her sister. Eventually, Weiss reaches the point of exhaustion; her shoulder injury is acting up, leaving her unable to lift her sword with her dominant hand. Jacques points this out, and she laughs, staggering; she picks the sword up in her left.

Jacques, on the sidelines, asks her what is so funny; she states that the Schnee name means nothing, that any pride and honor it once had was trampled by her father's actions. She tells him to look around – at their spectators. It just took her until now to realize that she didn't want him – didn't need him. He played with peoples' lives like chess pieces and enjoyed hurting others – she points out that Winter is nearly breaking down, and that only a tyrant would put his children in such a position. "Winter is a lieutenant in the Atlas military. She is bound by duty, and it it is her obligation -" "Winter is your daughter, and my sister." Weiss states that she would rather spend her days with the Grimm, because the only _animal_ she sees is her father. "You enjoy this – you disgust me."

Her father raises his walking cane, ready to bring it down on Weiss' head – and it is intercepted by Shirou, who grabs it. Winter refuses to lay another hand on Weiss. Mr. Schnee, in his rage, spits out: 'Fine. You've made your point. Since it's clear you won't see reason... consider yourself no longer a member of this family.' He disowns her on, on the spot, and then walks back to his private airship, fuming. Weiss is rushed by her team – and she feels numb, taken aback by it all. She glances over Ruby's shoulder, and notes that Shirou is standing there. He catches her eyes – and she notices a faint look of approval in his eyes. He nods his head. She nods back – and her heart hammers faster in her chest. A faint blush comes to her cheeks, and she quickly glances away.

* * *

 **Dialogue Interlude  
**  
"So... _that was a thing,"_ said Yang, clapping her hands together. **  
**

"Subtle," Blake sighed, turning the page of her book. "And here I'd thought you'd learned some tact."

"Nope," Yang replied, popping her lips loudly. "Good on you, Weiss-cream! You don't need that pompous asshole in your life - you've got enough drama as it is. How do you feel?"

"I feel... surprisingly good," Weiss admitted. "A little lost, though. My name has always been everything. I've always been 'Ms. Schnee', and now I'm just... Weiss. I'm not sure where to _go_ from here... what do I do now?"

The group lapsed into a thoughtful silence. Surprisingly enough, Blake was the one to break it. After a moment's hesitation, she placed a hand on Weiss' shoulder. Weiss looked up, brushing away the strands of her snow-white hair, and was greeted by a kind smile. "Take it one day at a time. That's all you really can do, right? Do what you've always done. Do what makes you happy. And one day, you'll find a new place to call your own. Until then, you've got us."

"Yeah!" exclaimed Ruby, throwing her fist up in the air. "Just Weiss is just enough!"

Weiss chuckled at her team leader's antics. If her eyes were a little watery, nobody said anything. "Thank you. All of you. For being there, I mean... and for everything else. I know I don't say things like this often, but... I really mean it."

At Yang's incredulous look, Weiss blushed, clearing her throat. "And don't you forget it, or I will be forced to remind you. Although, I really should thank Shirou. He's... done a lot for me."

"Thank him, huh?" Yang teases Weiss about Shirou – and it's easy to fluster the Heiress. "He's got white hair. He's got to be in his sixties, at least, probably older than Ozpin. I knew you appreciated the classics, but _damn_ , Weiss."

Weiss sputters, defending. "He's not – he's - what are you even – he's not old! He's in his mid-twenties at the latest!" she trails off, noting Yang's wicked grin, and she glares down at her knees, flustered. "I mean - not that I'm implying I'm interested in him, I'm just saying... I mean, if I was interested, he'd only been four or five years older, and in the grand scheme of things -"

"Lost your daddy, so you're looking for another one?" Yang interrupted, eyebrow raised, a knowing smirk on her lips. Blake snorted, and Weiss flushed beet red.

"Sh-shut up, you... you ingrate! You can't just say things like that!"

Ruby glanced between the two of them – and furrowed her brow. "What's going on?"

"Nothing you need to worry about, Rubes. Just some girl talk."

"But I'm a girl."

"I'll tell you when you're older, okay?"

"Yang -"

"Trust me, Rubes. Let it go."

Weiss let out a frustrated sigh. "Come on, ladies, let's get back on tack on track. Shirou's done a lot, for all of us. We should do something for him in return. Ordinarily, I'd suggest... flowers, or a nice gift card, but seeing as I don't have any money... I don't think those options will be available."

"Well, we'd better think of something quick," Ruby said, glancing at the doorway. "He's here."

"Huh?" Weiss blinked.

Ruby hopped out of her bed and strolled to the door, opening it – just in time to find Shirou, his knuckles raised as though to knock. Glancing up into the eyes of the Hero of Beacon, she couldn't help but frown.

"Shirou," she said, placing her hands on her hips. "We need to talk."

Shirou's eyes slowly rose into his hairline, giving away his surprise. After a moment, they lowered – as did his hand - and an amused smirk creased his lips. "Hm. I suppose we do."

 **Interlude End**

* * *

 **Blackrock Memorial Hospital, The Isle of Patch.**

Shirou states that Weiss summoned him. He doesn't say where he was summoned from, nor does he reveal his identity as a Counter Guardian, but he does imply that Weiss called out for someone to help her, and he best fit the criteria – although the summoning was botched, resulting in some unusual side effects.

"I think summoning a human being is pretty unusual to begin with."

"Heh. You'd be surprised, girl."

Ruby tries to bring up the dreams she's been having – the dreams of a hill of swords – but can't bring herself to do it. She is convinced that her team already thinks she's damaged goods, and she feels weird enough as it is. So she hides what she's going through. She promises herself that she'll bring it up with Shirou, just... later. When her sister and her friends aren't around.

Weiss brings up the fact that their goal is to stop Cinder and Adam, which puts the goals of Shirou and team RWBY in alignment. She proposes that they continue to work together; she states that they need someone to whip them into shape, and that Shirou would make an excellent teacher. Shirou disagrees, saying that he's not a good teacher; they're better off learning from someone else. His fighting style is unique, and can't be taught to others. Blake pipes up – saying that they've been trained to fight Grimm, but from the way Shirou moved... she can tell he's fought other _people_ , and that his style is orchestrated to fight against superior opponents. Few, if any, could claim to have beaten a dragon in single combat, and Blake suspects they'll see much more than a dragon in the days that come, thinking of Adam and Cinder. Shirou is the best choice of teacher. Yang chimes in, stating that if he's sitting around, he's useless, and that this way he can earn his keep. Weiss passes him a spare scroll filled with their contact information, and Ruby adds that she's already contacted Qrow and gotten the okay.

"You've already planned this out, haven't you?" Shirou snorts, turning on his heel – and pauses in the doorway, suggesting that the group contact him when they are ready to leave.

Shirou closes the door behind him, and then closes his eyes. "You were right."

Qrow leans forward out of the shadows. "Of course I was. They look up to you. It's only natural that they'd accept."

"Just make sure to hold up your end of the bargain."

"I'll keep you notified of Cinder's movements. Anything I find, whatever you need, I'll give it to you."

"And I will keep your nieces safe."

In short, the group convinced Shirou to accompany them on their journey, not knowing Qrow pushed him from behind the scenes. As their instructor, since they need someone to teach them to get stronger, Qrow is on missions and Tai is swamped with his duties as an instructor at Signal: one of the few schools for Huntsmen still active, a school now converted to a Valian refugee camp. Shirou's presence with the girls allows Qrow to keep an eye on him and to get a feel for him, because he doesn't want to make an enemy of Shirou. Cinder isn't going to move so soon – not after blowing all of her resources on the Vale invasion – and Adam wouldn't dare attack them on Patch. More to the point, they need to get stronger if they're going to take him on.

* * *

 **The Isle of Patch.**

Shirou cooks to earn his keep. During the day, Shirou trains the girls, continuing to hone their combat skills, even as their school is in ruins. It's the only way he can feel justified spending time with them – because he needs to be doing /something/ to right the wrongs in the world, otherwise he's a sword without a purpose. It's an itch that he feels compelled to scratch, though he is still conflicted about it. He still remains rather closed off, refusing to share his story. Yet, the girls trust him anyway, treating him like a friend, or a 'team mascot', depending on who you ask. "He's like Zwei, but cooler." "Shirou is not a pet." "He's cute though, right, Weiss?" "Sh-shut up, ape."

Ruby and Weiss, become rather close – like sisters should be. Weiss has ditched her family's colors and has taken to wearing regular clothes, mostly spare sets of Yang's: loose fitting, comfortable... and 'cheap', not that she'd ever say that. Weiss ends up spending more time with the man who saved her, and her infatuation begins to deepen. Ruby, for all her inexperience, picks up on it - and provides a thoughtful ear. She's naive enough that she can offer good advice, in the way only a child could, and doesn't discourage or tease her like Yang might.

Blake begins keeping Yang company, and with Tai's help, they begin forging her a weapon - something they're being secretive about. Shirou gives them their privacy. Blake forges a friendship with Yang's father, and begins to learn about her teammate's home life, all while experiencing family life for the first time. Opening herself up to other people is a new practice, but with each day that passes, she finds herself more comfortable around the others.

Yang doesn't really need to be Ruby's 'mother' anymore; the younger girl has grown in ways she couldn't predict, and she's giving Ruby her space. So she branches out on her own more, spends more time with Blake. Despite her injury, she hasn't lost her drive to be a Huntsman. Out of everyone, she trains the hardest, flourishing under Shirou's tutelage.

During this training, Shirou notes Ruby's obsession with weapons, and her attitude – and her nightmares, now that they're living in close quarters. He asks Yang about what's going on. "She didn't tell you?" She seems surprised that he'd be interested, and at his hard look, realizes it must be something serious. So she tells him. "She's been having nightmares since the dragon attack. Something about... swords, and a hill." When she's finished, Shirou feels a weight settle in his stomach... and he plans to pull Ruby aside. He says he needs to talk to her about something important later in the evening, after the others have gone to bed.

Ruby suggests that they meet by Summer's grave, as they will have privacy there. Shirou agrees. Night comes, the two arrive there, and Shirou asks her, directly, about her nightmares. She confirms that she's been having them, although she feels ashamed that others noticed. After checking Ruby for command spells, Shirou bites his lip. Something strange is going on, and he isn't sure what, but he has a theory he'd like to test. He passes Kanshou and Bakuya to Ruby, and asks her about them; she says they feel sad, but she can't understand why. Shirou's eyes widen in surprise, and in a fit of sudden rage, he summons a pair of his own, taking a step back. Before she can anticipate his actions, he strikes forward, lashing out at her with his swords. Hastily, she throws up a block, intercepting his strike; he challenges her to a short duel. She handles the weapons clumsily at first, but as the fight progresses, she picks up more and more of his techniques.

* * *

 **Dialogue Interlude**

"This shouldn't be possible," Shirou growled. "This... this can't be happening."

Shirou improvises a spell that will reveal Ruby's element and origin. Seeing the results of his test, he sucks in a quick breath.

Her element, and origin, are nonexistent. Not because she doesn't have them - no. The test succeeded. Which meant her element and origin... they were void. She is a _void_ incarnation, a human being who embodies the concept of absence, or nothingness: a blank slate, to be written upon. Something born of nothing. And through speaking with her, he comes to a realization: that perhaps she may be _distorted, just like he is._ The specifics of a person's distortions vary – the experiences that formed them ensured that – but among all distortions, there was one constant:

The perception that one was not human.

"Ruby," Shirou asked. "What... what are you?"

Most would have shrugged off the question, looking confused. Ruby didn't. She opened her mouth to reply, then closed it... and then stared down at her feet. Her interested expression dwindled, dying like a candlelight, until it was gone. Blank silver eyes stared up at him, tinted with disappointment and regret.

"I don't know," she finally admitted.

And in a world where people wore their souls on their sleeves, quite literally... such a person might take on the traits of people around them – even the abilities of people around them. In and of itself, her distortion was not an issue. She would be able to function, to live as any other person. It was so discrete that others might not notice. After all, didn't children mimic the behaviors of their parents?

But in this world, where souls were out in the open, where they expressed themselves, clashed, and collided... what effect would that have on a _void incarnation_? Ruby had shown that she could detect his presence. She'd been dreaming about Unlimited Blade Works. She'd picked up his swords, intuited their origin, and then fought him to a standstill, as though she'd spent a lifetime using them.

It was entropy on a personal scale: Ruby Rose was a melding pot for the powers, for the _personalities_ of others. She was a machine, just like him. No, she wasn't like him. She was no machine... she was a _leech_.

She leeched _souls_. Reaper, indeed.

But some souls were stronger than others. Could it be that by spending so much time near her, by exposing her to relics from the archives of Unlimited Blade Works - a physical representation of his owl soul - she'd been leeching from him?

Worse still - if she was absorbing bits and pieces of him, then... how long until she was _overwritten_?

He expressed as much to Ruby. She paused to consider the idea... and then she shrugs. "That means nothing to me. I didn't know I had a soul. Hearing that I have one... that makes me feel good, I think."

"Ruby, you aren't taking this seriously. Follow these events to their logical conclusion. Souls vary in strength, and mine is no simple one – it's had lifetimes to develop, to grow in power and depth. You're young. You're just a child. And if my soul is overwriting yours -"

"I hope it does," she said, quietly. "Shirou, I hate pretending. I hate... being this. And no matter what I do, nothing changes. I watch, and I copy, and it all feels so fake. I try to be a sister, and a leader, and a hero, and it doesn't happen. Nothing happens. I don't feel any different. Nothing changes."

She wrapped her arms around her belly. "I'm nothing. That's all I am. But... if being around you might make me _complete... if you can save me,_ then -"

"This won't save you, girl," he snapped. "Dammit. This is hell you're walking into, can't you see that?"

"No," she replied, smiling. "It feels... right. I feel at peace."

"And at the end of the day, you'll cease to exist," Shirou snarled. "You could end up a shell of a person, with no thoughts of your own... with no dreams of your own. Forced to be someone else, something else, unable to look back or escape. And if you walk down this path, if you walk the same way _I did_ -"

"I'll have purpose. I'll be able to puruse my mother's dream, a dream of a world without the Grimm," Ruby replied, quietly. "And in the end... isn't that all anyone can ask for? A world where everyone is saved? Where everyone is happy?"

Shirou stared at the fifteen year old girl... at the aberration lurking beneath her skin. His hand twitched around the hilt of his sword, as Ruby shifted, turning to her mother's grave. He fought against the urge to strike her down, to _save her_ , before she followed in his footsteps, becoming the monster he did: a killer, drowning in regret..

"Thank you, Shirou," she said, smiling. "I'm glad that you're here. Honestly, it's nice to have someone who understands. I wish you could have met my mom... I think you would have been good friends."

His swords dispersed in a haze of prana.

He placed a hand on her head.

"Ruby," he said.

She looked up. Her silver eyes widened.

"I'm... sorry," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I can't... I can't save you."

She smiled.

"It's okay. You already have," she said, quietly. "Just... stay with me here, for a while, okay?"

Shirou nodded.

 **Interlude End**

* * *

Things change, after that. Shirou does his best to train the girls, but often he takes leaves of absence, heading out into the world. He's tight-lipped about his destinations, and for all of Yang's pestering, Qrow never reveals where he's headed, either. Regardless, Shirou will disappear for a week or two, and then reappear, his clothes worse for wear, covered in minor wounds. Every time, it drives a spike through Weiss' heart, though Shirou brushes aside her concern with a flippant wave of his hand.

Ruby focuses on her training, and begins receiving private lessons from Shirou. When pressed by the others, she won't disclose what she's learning, only that it's important and that she's been sworn to secrecy. This doesn't stop her teammates' curiosity, but after a foiled spying attempt let to a humiliating dip in a nearby river, Blake learned her lesson and started respecting Shirou's privacy a little more.

Winter is on the horizon.

Blake and Tai finish their project: building a replacement arm for Yang. Yang is pleasantly surprised to have a brand new weapon, one that incorporates Ember Celica as a prosthetic. It allows her to return to combat again, something she couldn't be more excited about; in a fit of insanity, she smashes her face against Blake's, kissing her, and then fist-pumps before running out into the snow. Blake blushed furiously, scowling, and scolded Yang, but her heart wasn't really in it.

Later that night, Weiss approached Shirou, asking about Rin.

* * *

 **Dialogue Interlude**

"So... what was she like?"

"Loud. Smart – and sure to let you know it. Insufferable, and an absolute terror to everyone around her."

"You must have really loved her."

Shirou didn't respond.

"It's okay if you don't want to talk about her. I understand." Shirou shakes his head, and to her surprise, he talks.

"She was... unique," he murmured. The way he spoke, soft and compassionate, made Weiss double take. She'd never heard him speak so affectionately of anyone before. "She was a good person, despite her flaws. Selfish, but kind. She always looked out for others, even when she didn't have to, even when it wasn't convenient."

He spoke more about Rin – about their adventures together, the ones he could remember - and Weiss' hand covered his.

He didn't push it away.

 **Interlude End.**

* * *

Winter falls, and they hear the news from Qrow: Cinder and her forces are finally on the move. Ironwood has the details, and he's gathering power players from across the world into a makeshift alliance, trying to unite them against the threat she represents. Shirou, by default, has been invited. He steps up to the plate, ready to fight, and team RWBY steps up behind him, saying that they'll be at his back. He tries to dissuade them, stating that they're not ready, that they're too weak, that they'll just get in his way – being brutally harsh on the girls, because he doesn't want to see them get killed.

And, to his surprise, they fight back. They use what he's taught them to prove that they can be assets, that they aren't just weak little girls anymore. They are leagues stronger than when they first began, wiser to the world, and better as a team than alone. Ruby states that they'll be joining the alliance whether or not Shirou is there, and that it would be safer to travel as a group: a sentiment which Shirou finds himself agreeing to, if not for his own sake, than for theirs.

As they depart, Shirou thinks back on the time he has spent with the girls. Much to his ire, he feels like he's reverting back to his old ways. Visions of Rin come more frequently, and in his dreams, he can begin to see more details about her. He realizes that, perhaps, he can be more than simply a janitor. Because, alone, he is unable to make the difference he desires, but with _other people_... who is to say he can't? Unintentionally, he's found a family among these people, these people who uplift him in ways they can't appreciate.

Shirou still doesn't know why he was summoned to Remnant, or for what purpose – Alaya has been completely silent, despite his attempts to contact her – and Shirou considers the possibility that Alaya doesn't even exist on Remnant, which means he is free of his burden. But, being the people they are, they can't turn away from the fighting, not when there are people to be saved...

...and if these four are resolved on walking into that hell, he resolves to pave the trail. They are his responsibility, and he won't let them walk that path alone.

Together, our five heroes venture forth on their quest to search for Cinder, to bring an end to her empire.

 **Remnant Part One - End**

* * *

 **[Author's Note - Fell the Tempest]**

This was the original layout I had for the story progression of Remnant. Originally, this was all in bullet-point form, and many of the chapters were mangled together, having been written and again re-written at various points. What I envisioned and what I ended up writing were very different for the first few chapters, but that's a cost of converting a one-shot into an full story.

I didn't intend on posting this, but I ended up swapping enlistment contracts with someone else. Rather than being sent off to Base Camp in the first week of December, my delayed enlistment date was postponed to mid-January. I'm a little bummed about it, but that gave me the time to compile all of this, so I can't really complain.

There is more to the story. Remnant would have been the start of the journey, and it would have been the first of two to three parts. Cinder, Adam and Salem would have all been enemies, with Salem being the 'final boss', attempting to gather the power of all four Maidens to start a ritual that would absorb Alaya's power from all of humanity, removing Aura from the general population and setting the Grimm up to wipe everyone out.

I had the fight scene and epilogue fully planned out, and I'll be releasing them in a bonus chapter to follow. I doubt they'll be as impactful, as many of the interim details will be missing, but I think I'll post it regardless - if I can get it together in time - so that, at least in my head, you'll all see the conclusion of the journey, and I can let this fic rest easy for a while.

Until that time, feel free to post any questions you have about the story in the reviews. I'll do what I can to answer them.

Thank you all for your continued readership.


	11. Remnant Finale and Epilogue (Updated)

**Remnant Revealed: Finale and Epilogue**

* * *

Two years passed, and the world was worse off for it. Mistral and Atlas suffered great losses, as coordinated attacks by Salem and her ilk bit deep into the hearts of their cities. Vale became an extension of the Grimmlands, a scar upon the world that many people believed to be a herald of the end times. Desperation clouded the night sky, cutting off the stars, as the world's most powerful defenders were crippled and brought to their knees, in spite of the best efforts.

Salem acquired the power of the Fall Maiden after stopping a coup by Cinder. With the power of the Spring, Summer and Fall Maidens at her disposal, she only needed one more shard of Alaya to reach her end game: a ritual that will eliminate Aura. Each of the four shards of Alaya would acts as a catalyst, stripping the remnants of humanity of their power, leaving them defenseless. The slaughter to follow would surely eliminate the stain of humanity upon the world, allowing Gaia to flourish.

Weiss discovered the truth: that she was the Winter Maiden, a secret that not even she was aware of, as the title was passed on to her by her mother, who died when she was very young. (This contributed towards her ability to summon Shirou, as he was an agent of Alaya.) As Weiss listened to authority to a fault, as she listened to instructors and did very little otherwise, she had only ever accessed the power of her semblance, Glyphs; as a result, the power within her remained dormant, untapped, undiscovered... that is, until it was forced to the surface during their fight against Adam.

Salem coveted that power. Salem also knew that, should Weiss master her newfound abilities, the odds of defeating her would decrease, however slightly; instead, she decided to force a fight. In order to draw Weiss out, Salem captured Winter, knowing that where Winter went, Weiss would follow.

Salem reached out to Weiss, coercing her into signing a _geis:_ a magically binding agreement that forces compulsion on the people who sign it, and should a person fail to live up to the agreement, they will lose their power. The agreement Weiss signed was a simple one: she would engage Salem in a one-on-one fight, and regardless of the outcome, Winter would be set free. Should she refuse to fight, though... Winter would meet her end.

Weiss, desperate and afraid, revealed this to her team. Together, accompanied by Oscar, General Ironwood, Qrow, Raven, and other world leaders met in their journey, they hatched a plan.

Yang beat her mother, Raven, in single combat, and gained the right to leader her tribe; with her mother's blessing, she drew them into the fray, supplementing the ranks of Atlas with devoted outlaws. Likewise, Blake returned to Menagerie, which had become something of a fallout shelter for Faunus the world over; after defeating Adam, she used her newfound influence to convince its defenders to leave their home and contribute to the fight against the Grimm instead of waiting out the fall of mankind.

Their combined forces marched on Salem's fortress, accompanied by air support from Atlas, the remaining students of Beacon, and Huntsmen the world over. It was the single largest combined initiative in modern history, in which representatives of all four kingdoms – even Fallen Vale – worked together against the Grimm.

The plan would be as follows: they'd wait peacefully outside the gates as Weiss descended in a lone bullhead, to fight Salem in the courtyard. In an ideal world, Weiss would beat Salem, but she knows this is unlikely to be the case; instead, her goal is to stall for time. Raven planned to use her abilities to get Shirou inside Salem's fortress, wherein he would find Winter's prison and break her free. Then, the geis would be nullified, and their combined forces would crush Salem.

But plans have a tendency to fail, and Weiss was worried regardless. With so much on the line - with certain death approaching - she made a decision, one that would change the scope of the battle.

* * *

That night, Weiss finally confessed how she felt to Shirou. Words failed to do justice to the burning in her heart, but she made the attempt anyway.

Shirou smiled at her, but it was a meaningless thing. He stated that he couldn't return her affection, at least, not in a meaningful way. He was a sword, after all. Though his body was human, his mind, his soul... well, they were other matters entirely. He expressed his doubt, acknowledging that if they were to ever be together, the relationship would not be equal. Her heart could be for him, but his was bound by a purpose, one that transcended even death. He also cited the age difference between them, a difference that was more mental than it is physical. She was still young; she was still growing as a person, deciding her priorities. Would she feel the same way in ten years? In twenty?

Weiss acknowledged his concerns, and explained herself. He helped her grow as a person, helped her forge a life she can be proud of. She saw how he did so much for others, and whether or not these actions are a choice or a natural function, they are something she admired about him. He was beautiful in his own way, though a little rough around the edges. But she hated that he walked his battlefields alone, and wanted to be there for him... because everyone else harbored this idea that he's somehow invincible, but she knew he _wasn't_. Weiss wasn't his Master, she knew that, but she still viewed him as her responsibility; she brought him into this world, after all. And knowing all of that, how could she _not_ care? She stated that it was her right to choose who she was attracted to, and she snapped at him, demanding that he be grateful being chosen as the target of her affection. Despite her angry words, the tears budding at the corners of her eyes gave her away.

Shirou's lips parted, a response prepared - and she took that moment to kiss him. The act caught him in a rare moment of surprise, and yet Weiss pressed onward, pressing herself up against him. It's an unpracticed motion for the both of them, but Shirou is ultimately human, possessing impulses he once did not, and eventually he caved; she was a beautiful woman, on the crest of adulthood, one who he had fought alongside, one who he respected. And though he might not be able to return her affections, he could at least try to give her what she needed. She cared for him, and he resolved to care for her as best he can.

* * *

That night, she beckoned him into her bedroom. He did not refuse. Ruby saw their silhouettes, illuminated by the firelight, disappear into the room. As they turned away, so did she, her gaze settling on the treeline. And as they made love, Ruby stood outside in the snow, smiling faintly. Snow crunched beneath her boots as she took one step, and then another.

The mounds of snow began to take shape. Swords rose from them, ghostly swords, illuminated white by the moonlight. In that forest clearing, standing before her mother's grave, they extended in every direction. She knew they weren't real; she knew they were a side-effect of over-using Shirou's abilities in defense of her team. But they were a comfort regardless, a constant companion to her now, floating at the edges of her vision.

However, there was one apparition she did not expect to see: a vision of Summer, her mom, hovering in the tree-line. Ruby looked upon the ghost of her mother and smiled, asking if she is proud. Summer approaches, ghostly lips kissing her on the forehead; she embraced her daughter. Though incorporeal, warmth trickled into Ruby's limbs at her mother's touch - or perhaps it was merely a memory of warmth. When Summer spoke, it was not with words, but with feelings: bits and pieces of emotion that have lingered long after her passing, held within Ruby by her status as a void incarnation.

Ruby apologized, saying that their meeting might be the last time they see one another. There was no telling what the next day would bring, what horrors they'd face, she might have needed Shirou's power to level the playing field. She hoped Summer ccould understand, and forgive her... and, in the meantime, they could spend a little more time together. Summer nods, teary-eyed, and wraps Ruby in a tender embrace.

Yang and Blake are sitting on the rooftop, silent. They both know what's going on with Ruby, and can see it from their vantage point; it's disturbing to watch the girl talk to herself, standing there in the snow, relaxed – like a porcelain doll – but Shirou's explanation helped. In spite of how solid their plan was, Yang couldn't help but worry: even if they succeeded, what would happen to her little sister? Would she be okay, in the end? Yang had come so far, had grown so strong... but was this an enemy she could defeat with strength alone?

Blake wrapped an arm around Blake's shoulder, drawing the berserker close. She, too, was worried for Ruby.

Their conversation drifted, fading into comfortable silence - and then Blake mentioned, offhandedly, that she's glad that Yang kissed her on that day, the day that Beacon fell. She said the new life they've made together is well worth any trial. She confessed that, no matter what happens, Yang won't not be alone. Blake also said that she has no regrets; the last two years have been hectic, and Yang's confession couldn't have been more poorly timed... but looking back on it all, she wouldn't trade it for the world. "Life isn't like your books, Blake." "Still. If there's a way to a happy ending, we'll find it. I promise." Yang leans her head on Blake's shoulder. Then, Blake tells Yang that they should get some sleep; they have an early start tomorrow morning, and they need to be rested for the battle. Yang agrees. Together, they retrieved Ruby, and brought her back inside.

* * *

The sun rose on a new day.

The plan proceeded as expected. Weiss stalled for time against Salem while Raven and Shirou penetrated deeper into her castle. They found Winter, who was held captive by Tyrion; they dispatched the madman with ease before freeing Winter from her cage and escorting her out. As they fled, the contract was broken. Salem sensed as much, growing enraged; she tried to bring the fight to an immediate end, channeling her massive power against Weiss.

Rho Aias appeared, intercepting the blast.

Shirou was standing behind Weiss, having arrived through the use of one of Raven's portals. Shirou ordered Weiss to retreat; he stated that he would finish Salem. Weiss refused to let Shirou fight on his own. And through the portal, Ruby, Blake, and Yang emergd, all echoing the same sentiments.

"You never learn, do you?" Shirou grunted, straining under the weight of Salem's devastating attack. "Stupid girl."

"Get used to it, sunshine," Yang chided, pumping her mechanical fist.

The remaining resistance fighters held off the legions of Grimm, preventing outside interference. It was a five-on-one fight, but the odds still looked pretty bad for humanity. On the spot, Ruby improvised a plan. Ruby, Weiss and Yang would distract and disorient Salem while Blake got close enough to land a killing blow. Shirou operated from the sidelines, providing artillery support in the form of arrows and mid-grade Noble Phantasms.

Ruby took a serious blow, losing an eye. Weiss, already exhausted from their fighting, tried using her glyphs to mess with Salem, but they aren't very effective. Yang was the bruiser, taking hits and dishing them out. Blake took advantage of the distractions they provided and used Rule Breaker on Salem.

However, it didn't work. Salem's connection to Gaia made her effectively immortal and her power made her a one-woman wrecking ball. She could tap into the earth itself, can feel the world around her and was connected with the earth so intimately that she couldn't be touched; her sensory perception was not limited to sight alone but also included passive perception of air currents, gravitational shifts, etc. It wouldn't be a mistake to say that she was omnipotent within a limited range. As she was an Avatar, and not the target of a magical contract, she was (by technicality) Gaia, and Gaia was her; as there was no distinguishing between the two, Noble Phantasms like Rule Breaker would have no effect on her.

Salem grabbed Blake by the throat and her hands burned with fierce power; Blake started screaming as her aura is eaten away by the heat. Yang jumped in, throwing everything she had into a mechanical arm punch. Salem droped Blake, laughing as the faunus fell to the earth, and then struck Yang's mechanical arm at the joint, destroying it in an explosion of mechanical parts. Ruby and Weiss rushed to their aid. As Salem descended on the girls, intent on killing them and stealing the power of the Winter Maiden for herself, Shirou interceded and deploys Unlimited Blade Works.

Unlimited Blade Works is a reality marble manifested in accordance with the World Egg Theory. It is the soul overriding the physical plane. Alaya can't be killed while connected to the earth, so Shirou deployed Unlimited Blade Works in order to put a buffer between the two, rendering her temporarily killable.

Excalibur, for all its glory, wasn't an option; the girls were too close, and the backlash from such a powerful weapon could have potentially killed them, or destroyed the reality marble entirely. Instead, Shirou hatched a different plan. Steeling himself, he engaged Salem in melee combat. However, she was much faster and still possessed her Maiden powers, leaving her incredibly hard to pin down. He even tried using the heavenly chains of Enkidu and she _broke out of them_. The fight was long and hard; minutes felt like hours as Shirou took wound after wound, blew through most of his prana stores, and baited her into shoving a hand through his gut.

Salem taunted him, holding him aloft. Then, he smirked, and chants, " _My body is made of swords_ ". He manifested swords _within_ himself, trapping her limb inside his torso, and pulls her close; it was an embrace of death. Salem screams, trying to tug her arm free, beating him bloody. She was succeeding in freeing herself, despite the swords emerging from him and skewering her, holding her in place, though it was a slow process. All of her attention was on him, and that's exactly what he wanted.

Salem was no longer omnipotent, as she was not on Earth, and she could only defend against attacks that she could see. So she was unprepared when Ruby appeared from behind, shoving Gae Bolg through Salem's back, piercing her heart and Shirou's stomach. Salem's thoughts were consumed with rage at the identity of her killers.

There was an explosion of light as the powers of the Maidens were released. Ruby became the Spring Maiden, Blake became the Summer Maiden, and Yang became the Fall Maiden. Weiss, the Winter Maiden, noticed none of this; she only noticed the aftermath.

Salem disappeared, dispersing into a cloud of ash. Shirou dropped to his knees, slumped forwards, atop a hill of swords. By burning through so much prana, by straining his body and soul to the limit, Shirou knew that he was on his deathbed. Wounds inflicted by Gae Bolg are cursed to resist healing, and this wound would likely bring his death.

But the girls had time to say goodbye. They sat beside him as he knelt on the top of that hill, staring into the sunset. Like all belly wounds, it was a slow death. Shirou's reality marble began to fade. The gears slowly grind to a halt, and the sun begins to set. Gae Bolg fades away, disappearing into dust.

Blake remained fairly contained about the whole affair, but her eyes were wet; she can barely speak. Yang is much more vocal, kneeling in the dirt, her eyes shut, her shoulders shaking. She says that it's all bullshit, that he's survived time and time again – that he can't just die, because he's a hero. Shirou smiled up at her, saying nothing.

Ruby apologizes, quietly. Using Gae Bolg was the only solution she could find. Shirou coughs, and thanks her. She'd become a hero, saving all of humanity. He tries to absolve her of the consequences, giving her the forgiveness and acceptance that he never got. Recognizing this, Ruby can't help but cry, something she hasn't done in years. She brought a hand to her cheek, her eyes widening in surprise. Then, smiling, she placed a hand on Shirou, thanking him for everything he's given her.

Weiss held his hand, and props him up against her knees. Even though he'd long since lost feeling in his body, Shirou appreciated it. She confessed that she loves him, and said that she always will. She said that she'll wait for him, no matter how long it takes, and that they'll see each other again someday... so no matter where he goes, no matter where he ends up, he has to know that he isn't alone. To her, is more than just a sword: he is a living, breathing person.

Looking into the eyes of the people he loves, he murmurs. "Don't thank me. It's a waste... of your breath."

He smiled.

The sun set. Warmth suffused his being.

Everything faded to white.

* * *

"This is the prophecy of an old wizard who lived alone in the mountains.

"Hidden from the dangers and distractions of the world, the wizard seldom had visitors. But on this day, as he peered out his window, his gaze fell upon a young maiden. Calmly, she sat beneath his tree in a state of absolute tranquility. When the wizard demanded an explanation, the maiden simply replied,

 _"My name is Winter. I am on a journey, and I am waiting for my sisters."_

"With that, she closed her eyes and sat in silence. The wizard told himself the girl was a fool, but the longer she sat, the more he wished to share in the serenity the young maiden enjoyed. In time, he grew tired and decided to close his eyes as well, thinking on this strange predicament.

Upon opening his eyes, the wizard was befuddled to find that a second maiden appeared beneath his tree, cheerful and spry, with a basket of fruit and flowers. When he asked for an explanation, the girl simply replied,

 _"My name is Spring. I am on a journey, and I am waiting for my sisters."_

To show her gratitude for his reluctant hospitality, the girl retrieved a handful of seeds from her basket and planted them in the wizard's garden. The old hermit could hardly believe his eyes as the maiden turned what was once a mere pile of dirt and manure into a beautiful garden, from which life would surely blossom. It's likely he would have gazed for hours, were it not for the unfamiliar laughter he heard from beneath his tree.

A young woman with a warm smile now stood beside the two maidens. The wizard begged her to introduce herself, to which she happily responded,

 _"My name is Summer. I am on a journey, and I am waiting for my sister."_

"Of course," thought the wizard. But another chirp of laughter left the old man perplexed. What in the world was so funny? As it turned out, it was him. The new arrival found the wizard's insistence on staying indoors so very amusing. Why choose to view the world through a small window when the door leading out to it was right at his side?

It was a compelling argument. And after only a moment of brief hesitation, the wizard left his home -

\- and stepped outside. The warmth of the sun brought with it a surge of energy and life, and soon the wizard wasn't feeling much like himself anymore. He was feeling much better.

As the day drew to a close, the maidens and the wizard all settled down and prepared a feast. Winter set the table. Spring supplied the crops, Summer prepped the meal, and the wizard was the happiest he'd been in ages. But in all the excitement, he nearly failed to notice the delicate woman that now stood beneath his tree.

He smiled, and beckoned her to join them, asking only for her name.

 _"My name is Fall,"_ she replied softly. _"I am on a journey, and am here to meet my sisters. Who are you?"_

 _"Me?"_ , the wizard wondered. " _Well, I am but an old hermit - I have lived in these woods alone for centuries and I'm afraid my story is not very interesting, as I have no one to love and nothing to my name."_

The elder sister looked up at all that surrounded them.

 _"But sir, do you not see? You have so much."_

It was true. With their help, it was now clear to see that the wizard had everything he could ever need. He was grateful, but a question lingered in his mind.

 _"Why me?"_ , he asked. _"Why did the four of you choose to open my eyes? To share with me your gifts? Why am I so special?"_

The four sisters looked to one another, perplexed. Finally, the eldest spoke.

 _"I beg your pardon sir, but we did not do these things for you because you were special. We do what we can for everyone, because we are able."_

The old wizard was at a loss. Never in his years had he come across such kindness. It was in that moment that he knew what should be done. The wizard summoned his magic, every ounce he could muster, and bestowed it upon the sisters.

He smiled. _"Take this gift, and know now that you are able to do so much more."_

Now armed with the elements, the very powers of nature, and the unimaginable magic of the wizard, the four maidens, Winter, Spring, Summer and Fall, promised to carry on with their journey, using their gifts to aid others, just as they aided him. One by one, the sisters left. Before they did, they made one final promise.

They promised to return each and every year, to visit their dear friend.

* * *

A woman reads a book to her child – a book with pictures of four women, dressed like the seasons, and an old man on the cover. _'The Four Maidens,'_ it reads, in flowery cursive.

"What happened next?" The girl asks. "What happened to the old man?"

"He moved on," replied the woman. She couldn't meet the girl's eyes. "He'd been cooped up in that old home for so long, that... well, it was time for him to move on. He went on a long journey... he went somewhere the maidens couldn't follow, somewhere they couldn't visit."

"Oh," the girl said, furrowing her brow. "But that's sad. He sounds so nice..."

"He was, even if it took time for him to come around," the woman replied, smiling wistfully. She shifted, setting the storybook aside. "Still, that's life. People change, people move on. But he gave the world its greatest gift: hope. And if you think about it... it's like he never left at all."

The child hummed. "...Indeed."

The woman laughed. "Don't _indeed_ me. You're only six years old, you're not old enough to _indeed_ anyone." She lowered her hand to the child's hair, ruffling it affectionately; the child huffed, squirming in her lap – and then let out a quiet yawn.

"Looks like someone's tired," the woman chided. "Come on, squirt - let's get you to bed."

The child nodded, sighing as a set of woolen blankets were pulled up to her chin. As the woman bent down to kiss her on the forehead, the girl spoke.

"...Will I ever get to meet him?" she asked, softly. She glanced away, her expression guilty; her steel-blue eyes looked everywhere but up. Her hair, a dull silver, lay about her head in tangled locks. "Will I ever get to meet dad?"

"Oh, sweetie," The woman said, her lilac eyes lowered. She ran her lone hand through her blonde locks, brushing an errant strand of hair over her ear. After a moment's hesitation, she sighed, before planting a kiss on the girl's forehead. Rising, she met the girl's tired gaze with a determined look of her own.

"I can promise you this much: if there's a way to bring him back... we'll find it. I promise."

The child nodded and rolled over, burrowing herself in the blankets.

Yang stood and left the room, closing the door behind her.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that," said a voice.

"It's okay," Yang said, shaking her head. "She gets like that around this time of year. It's hard on her. This is the least I can do."

Blake nodded, sighing. The seasons had been kind to her; she had always been the pretty sort, but in adulthood, she had truly blossomed. Once gangling, her build had finally filled out; despite this, she still maintained an ethereal sort of grace, her footsteps nearly silent on the wooden floor. Despite that, Yang was rarely surprised by her anymore. They'd developed a synergy, a sense for one other that they couldn't put to words. Perhaps it was the power of the Maidens interacting; perhaps it was something more.

"It brings back so many memories," Blake admitted, folding her arms beneath her chest. "Hard to believe it's already been six years."

"Time flies," Yang replied, shrugging. She placed her hand on her hip and smiled encouragingly. "It's been a good six years, hasn't it?"

"...I suppose," Blake replied, meeting Yang's smile with one of her own. The ravenette leaned in, placing a soft kiss on the blonde bruiser's lips; she sighed, returning it. A moment passed, and Yang broke the kiss, placing her head on Blake's shoulder. Inhaling the scent of her lover, she couldn't help but sigh.

"Hey, Blake?" She asked, her voice small. "If tonight doesn't go well... what do we tell her?"

"That she's got people who love her," Blake replied, firmly. "And that we'll be there for her."

"Right," Yang breathed. "Okay. It's just... this is all so crazy. I never thought we'd actually come this close to... you know. And the thought of failing, it's..."

"I know," Blake replied, eyes downcast. She shut them tightly, her grip on Yang's waist tensing. "I feel the same way. But we can't give up, especially not now. For their sake."

Yang nodded, and slowly pulled away, letting out a slow breath. "Thanks."

Blake nodded, and then gestured towards the door. "Come on. They're waiting for us."

* * *

Straightening her back, Yang marched forward. Brushing aside the door as though it weren't even there, she stepped out of their cottage and into the snow. Night had fallen, and the fractured moon hung in the sky above, gleaming brightly. Snowflakes gently fell like so many sakura petals, crunching beneath their feet, dusting the roof and the trees in a layer of white powder.

But the two huntresses couldn't appreciate the view, not tonight. Their eyes were on something else entirely: a dilapidated toolshed, and the lights gleaming inside it.

Yang entered first.

"Remind me why we're doing this so late at night?" asked Qrow. The retired Huntsman, his hair a mottled grey, was sitting on a nearby chair, pouring over a piece of parchment. It was old, yellowed with age; upon it was a runic diagram of some sort, one that seemed to loop around the page, its crimson ink contrasting harshly with its medium.

"Because my _prana_ output is highest at this time," replied Weiss. She was kneeling on the floor, clad in blue sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt, holding out a hand. Glyphs spun about her fingertips, glowing softly in firelight. As they spun, lines were inscribed on the tile, lines of silver, gold and crimson. "You should know better than anyone else: our education is botched, piecemeal, constructed from the ruins of a long-dead civilization. Even a small mistake could result in failure, and I don't want to leave anything to chance."

Qrow sighed, nodding. "Yeah, yeah. Still, I think we should be okay. You're pretty much the world's leading authority on magecraft. If anyone can pull this off, it's you."

Weiss stilled, and then nodded. "...I hope so. All these years of research, of scouring the Grimmlands and breaking into abandoned workshops... I'm hoping that it'll all pay off. Ruby, are you ready?"

"Yes," Ruby responded, her voice flat and soft, as though she were in a trance. Her eyes were closed, and she was sitting in the center of Weiss' summoning circle, the lines of which circled lazily about her. Her posture was... ramrod straight, and her expression was devoid of all emotion or fatigue. " _My body is made of swords_."

"W-wait," interrupted Yang, worry in her voice. "Are you sure this is safe?"

Weiss glanced up at the blonde bruiser, and after a moment, she nodded. "It should be. You understand what we're doing, right?"

Yang shooked her head slowly. "No. This is... this is a little beyond me, Weiss-cream."

"Alaya is dead," Weiss explained, as she continued her work. A handful of gemstones, each filled with prana, hovered about the edges of the circle; slowly, they lowered into place, settling against the tile with uniform _clicks_. "Alaya might not exist anymore, but her plane does, as I accidentally proved when I summoned Shirou all those years ago."

"I'm not seeing your point."

"If Alaya's domain exists, then it stands to reason that other domains exist, too, even if they cannot be reached," Weiss explained. "In the research I've done, there exist hints of another plane: the _Throne of Heroes._ It's a place that exists outside of time and space, where the greatest souls of humanity go after their deaths, provided that their deeds impacted the world. The details on the plane were skimpy, but after everything Shirou's done... if anyone's qualified for a seat on the throne, it would be him. He's a legend in every sense of the word."

"Okay," Yang said, hesitantly. "I'm with you so far. But why's Ruby in the circle?"

"She's a void incarnation," Weiss responded. Yang's braindead expression prompted her to sigh sharply. "Look, it's like this. When I first summoned Shirou, it was an accident. I have no idea how I did it, and frankly, trying to replicate such a feat could end in disaster. There's no telling who or what I'd summon, and there's no telling whether or not I'd live to tell you about it."

She gestured to Ruby. "But Ruby is a void incarnation, which means that spiritually speaking, she's a ' _blank slate to be written upon'_. She takes in pieces of the people around her. And with as much time as she spent around Shirou, with how powerful his soul is? She's got a part of Shirou inside of her."

Yang's eyes widened. "So... if this works -"

"We can use the piece of Shirou that is inside Ruby as a _catalyst,_ a link between us and Shirou," Weiss affirmed. "All we need to do is provide the circle and the _prana_. I'll be acting as a conduit for your power: in essence, being his anchor. Together, we'll draw him here, and give him a body of his own."

"...Is it really that simple?" Yang asked, hesitantly.

"No," Weiss responded, raising an eyebrow. "There's more to it, of course. Elemental conversion and energy manipulation, prana storage... at the end of the day, thaumaturgy is a lot like math. The rules are complex, but they're defined. If you understand them well enough, you can manipulate them to change the world around you. But if you're interested, when we're finished here, I could provide some reading material on the subject. Perhaps -"

"W-wait," Yang replied, blinking owlishly. "Math can bring people back from the dead? ...Goodwitch always told me that Math would be useful in adulthood, but I never thought -"

"This won't be true resurrection," Weiss corrected, shaking her head. A hint of a smile played at her lips, but she hid it well. "What we're doing is... it's more like a standard Master/Servant contract without Command Seals. And since we don't have an artifact or Mystic Code that could be used to create an artificial body, we're directing our own energy to do so."

"...How much energy are we talking about?" Qrow interjected, glancing between his daughter and her teammates.

"Roughly a quarter of our reserves," Weiss admitted. "Each."

Yang let out a slow whistle. "...You weren't kidding, Weiss. Damn."

"But - hold on a second," Blake interjected, biting her lip. "What about - what about Ruby? You know what this could do to her."

It had been years since the defeat of Salem, years since Ruby was exposed to the inner machinations of Unlimited Blade Works, and she'd never quite been the same. It was as though something within her had shifted. Old pieces were erased, and new parts were put in their place; the changes were small enough, and if one didn't know what to look for, they might assume the changes were natural, perhaps merely consequences of growing up in a time of war.

But her team, her family - they knew. And they saw.

Though she'd always been an introvert, she'd never been so _quiet_. Her trademark grin became more wistful, and her smile showed less teeth; sometimes, it was paper-thin, like a conversation piece at a funeral: something to be talked about, but not something that held emotion, not something that held meaning.

Sometimes, she would go for days without talking, speaking only when required to do so, while her gaze settled on something in the distance. When she did speak, as rare as it was, it was with a purpose; and in those moments, her teammates realized that she'd lost a lot of the social ineptitude that had plagued her in her early years.

Ruby had crested her early twenties, but she acted like she was in her forties, taking enjoyment in things most her age would not, such as household chores and mechanical work. She led their team, but only into battle; on the sidelines, she was content to let others take the reigns. Through it all, she'd smile that same smile.

But the most telling change would be when she displayed skills that weren't her own. Ruby always had steady hands, but had never been one for art; nowadays, her notebooks were filled with endless sketches - sketches of bladed weapons, immaculate and pristine, so lifelike, you could almost imagine reaching into the page and grabbing them. In addition, she became an accomplished cook almost overnight, shifting from baked goods to cuisine; kitchen knives moved with inhuman grace between her fingertips, as though she'd worked for a lifetime as a professional chef, and it was a skill they'd only seen in _one_ other person.

And on top of that, Yang had also noticed that her childhood memories were... spotty, in certain places. The names and faces of her friends from Signal Academy were all but gone. In those moments, confronted with her losses, Ruby would shrug, glancing away awkwardly - in much the same way she used to, all those years ago, when trying not to make others worry.

Yang cried. Ruby didn't understand why.

She hadn't manifested Unlimited Blade Works, and it was unlikely that she ever would, but that didn't stop her teammates from worrying about her. Shirou's influence on her was strong enough that she was changing, even in his absence, into something very much like him; a parody of sorts, a fake of a fake. Someone who had very little sense of self-preservation, someone who had very little sense of self-worth. Her personality could be hard to read at times, shifting between child-like exuberance, nostalgia, and stone-cold apathy.

"...I know," Weiss admitted. "And so does she."

Ruby opened her good eye, and glanced up at her sister, smiling.

"It'll be okay, Yang," she said. And this wasn't one of her paper-thin smiles, either; this was a real one, a smile she rarely showed. "Shirou became what he is because he was all alone. And back then, his power... it overwhelmed mine. But I'm a maiden now - and so are you three. As long as I have you, I'll never become him. I promise."

Yang met her sister's gaze. In the face of such conviction, such _love,_ what was she supposed to say? Resentment bubbled in her chest, tinted with despair. Her fists went knuckle-white. She swallowed, and then she nodded.

 _'...Dammit Ruby.'_

"...Okay. I'll hold you to that... just tell me what you need me to do."

* * *

The sun sets. Warmth suffused his being.

Everything faded to white.

And then...

...then, there was a flickering light.

Something about it was familiar. It called to him, beckoning him... home. He reached for it, grasping it in a calloused hand. It wound around him, burning brightly, scalding him with its touch, bringing about pain, crippling _pain_ -

\- and he took a shuddering breath, the first in what felt like a lifetime.

Silence.

His chest rose and fell, as though he'd awoken from a nightmare. Glancing down, his blurry vision settled on his chest: towards the spot where a gaping hole ought to be. To his surprise, no such hole existed. He placed a bare hand to his chest, feeling for a scar - and found nothing.

He stood in the center of the circle, in all of his glory, steam rising from his limbs. His uniform had been restored to perfection, his body armor polished and gleaming. A pitch-black bow was strung across his back, and a familiar pair of shortswords were secured at his hips, their black-and-white finish contrasting pleasantly against his tanned skin and crimson armor.

The Shroud of Martin was draped about his shoulders, but it now had an attached hood – one that was drawn up, framed by golden thread, concealing his features.

Footsteps. Someone was approaching.

A pair of hands, delicate and lithe, cupped his jaw. His hood was pulled back, revealing snow-white hair and steel-grey eyes, eyes that had seen far too many battles.

"Shirou," someone whispered. "Shirou, it's you. It's... it's really _you_."

"...Weiss?" He asked. The voice was familiar, the name less so, yet it came easily to his tongue. "What-"

She kissed him.

The memories returned in an explosion of light, sound and color. The summoning, the dragon, the Fall of Beacon, the aftermath and the Atlas Duel, their training and eventual pursuit of Cinder... the defeat of Adam, the conquering of the Tribe, Salem's gamble, and -...

Weiss pulled away.

She was different. Older. Not quite as tall as her elder sister, but still a modest height. The beginnings of crows feet were etched at the corners of her eyelids. Her skin glowed faintly with aura, pristine and white, as though she were some untouchable demi-goddess. Likely, it was a consequence of becoming attuned with the power of the Winter Maiden.

Some women could be pretty when they cried, but Weiss was not one of those; her cheeks were splotchy and red, her eyes bloodshot, her lips pale. Even so, something thumped in Shirou's chest at the sight of her.

"We've missed you," Weiss said, sniffling. "I'm... I -"

Shirou grasped her - with _hands that would never hold anything_ – and had a thought... that maybe, just maybe, he could be a hero after all. If not for the world, then for this woman. This woman that his hands _could_ hold.

He pulled her close as she cried. Soon, they were joined by the others: Ruby, Yang and Blake. Eyes closed and heart open, Shirou tightened his grip on the heiress.

"I missed you, too."

 **Fin**

* * *

 **[Author's Note - Fell the Tempest]**

This concludes Remnant.

It was a pleasure being able to write something like this, and I'm glad I've gotten it finished in time. Some day, I may very well come back and re-write this story, but that's an adventure for another day.

I want to give a special shout-out to the following people, for the inspiration, support, and criticism:

 **knightoblivion** , **TimeDiver** , **Parks98** , **Sociopathic-Antichrist** , **Server lock** , **Jouaint** , **Logan - Murder of Crows** , **Z. R. Stein** , **Couer Al'Aran** (who inspired this fic, you should check him out), and last but not least, **TheMaster4444** , who inspired me to belt all of this out and finally bring an end to the story. Seriously, you guys make this community a better place, and you deserve as much support as anyone can give.

For everyone who enjoyed the reading, for all those who viewed and reviewed, thank you very much for your support. Hopefully I'll see you all around soon. :)


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